


Star Trek: Shield 1x03 “The Orions”

by raiining



Series: Star Trek: SHIELD [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, M/M, always-a-girl Harry Dresden, always-a-girl John Marcone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6282934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton knows his knowledge of the black market is the reason Admiral Fury secretly hired him, but he's pretty sure the Admiral hadn’t foreseen an undercover mission into Lissepian space.  Clint can do covert ops, but he isn’t prepared for Phil Coulson as his handler, Harry Dresden as his backup, or an Orion slave girl as his contact on the inside.</p>
<p>Harry may be a friend he can learn to depend on, but it’s going to take more than willpower to resist Coulson being both attractive <i>and</i> competent.  Not to mention, the Orion is clearly more than what she seems…</p>
<p>Episode three of the multi-fandom Clint/Coulson centric Star Trek AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> It takes a village! Thank you to my FABULOUS beta crew of orderlychaos, Ralkana, and Desert_Neon. THANK YOU, LADIES!!! You are the absolute BEST and you make everything I write sheer orders of magnitude better. I know this one took a lot, so super extra thank you!
> 
> Please note: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson and Harry “Harriet” Dresden/Joan Marcone are the eventual relationships featured most heavily in this fic. There is also minor Danielle Cage/Natasha Romanova character building.

“Quorn!” Clint exclaimed, grinning widely at the display screen. “How’s it hanging?”

Halfway across the galaxy, the Ferengi DealMaker scowled. “You.”

“Hey,” Clint protested, leaning back in _Lola_ ’s piloting chair and putting a hand on his chest. “Is that any way to greet the man who’s made you rich?”

Quorn scoffed so hard, his earlobes waggled. From what Clint could see, he was sitting at his usual desk, brown and yellow fabrics hanging in a traditional mural of the Great River behind him. The Ferengi didn’t have gods the way other civilizations did, but they did have the Blessed Exchequer, who accepted bribes. “Hardly. You’re good, boy, but I know better thieves, and I heard about your latest debacle.” 

“Debacle?” Clint echoed innocently. “Me?”

The Ferengi’s ridged brow lifted. “Did you think no one would notice? You stole the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, you idiot, and then you _gave it back!_ To the _Federation!_ ”

Clint let his hand fall. “Quorn, please, what do you take me for? I didn’t just _give it back,_ I exchanged it.”

“Uh-huh,” Quorn asked dryly. “For what?” 

“My freedom,” Clint explained. “They had me by the lobes, Quorn.”

“Bhah. Small, puny things, your lobes,” Quorn dismissed. His hand came up to stroke his ear, large even for a Ferengi. “Hardly good for anything.”

Clint shrugged. “Good for keeping me out of jail. I heard they were willing to make a deal, so I dealt.”

“I suppose,” Quorn said grudgingly. “‘Always leave yourself an out.’”

“Rule of acquisition number two hundred and forty-three,” Clint agreed.

Quron sighed. “Fine. No chance of stealing it back?”

“No,” Clint told him. “Security around the temple has been increased.” The upgrades had been made with his input, of course, but he wasn’t about to tell the DealMaker that.

“Pity,” Quorn said. “I could have offered you a hefty price for it.”

Clint’s ears perked up. “Oh?”

“There’s been a spike of interest in ancient artifacts of late,” Quorn said with a shrug. “Don’t ask me why – dusty things – but the older, the better for these people. There are at least three interested parties out there, and I’ve been told to expect more.”

Clint frowned. “That’s strange. Most things that are ‘ancient’ these days have already been dug up and passed around a time or two. Are they museums looking to add to their collections?”

Quorn shook his head. “Private collectors.”

“Huh,” Clint said, and then shrugged. “Well, what are they interested in?”

Quorn’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” He peered behind Clint. “Are you back in business? Not still holed up with the Federation, are you?”

“Nope,” Clint lied cheerfully. He leaned away from the screen so Quorn could get a good view of his shuttle. _Lola_ had been damaged when Clint had been on the run from Starfleet, thanks in large part to Agent Phil Coulson of Starfleet Intelligence, the man who’d spent two years hunting him down. Since Clint had been caught and had agreed to work with them, however, they’d been helping him patch her up; Harry, the _U.S.S. Shield_ ’s chief engineer, in particular. 

“You’re not the worst company in the galaxy,” Harry had admitted, when they’d been elbow-deep in _Lola_ ’s components one afternoon. “It’s this or tinker with the sublight engines again, and the Captain said she’ll tie me to the impulse drive the next time I change the export ratio without telling her.”

Clint had frowned. “Isn't the impulse drive on the _outside_ of the ship?”

Harry had buried her head in the engine. “Yup.”

Harry was here now, monitoring Clint’s conversation so that if Quorn tried to trace the signal, he’d see _Lola_ flying through unoccupied space near sector oh-oh-eleven, and not sitting comfortably inside the _U.S.S. Shield_ ’s auxiliary shuttle bay. Phil Coulson, no longer working for Starfleet Intelligence and instead the _Shield_ 's new first officer, stood beside her.

“Just me and my ship,” Clint went on to Quorn, indicating _Lola_ ’s familiar cabin. Harry and Coulson, perched in front of him, were out of view. “I gave Starfleet the slip after the whole Starbase G-6 thing.”

On the display, Quorn frowned. “I’m surprised they let you go.”

Clint shrugged, careful not to look at Coulson. “The Sacred Chalice of Rixx was enough of an incentive. Besides, they had bigger fish to fry.”

Quorn nodded and leaned forward. “Rumours are swirling. Did a Federation captain really get killed?”

Clint cocked an eyebrow. “If I tell you, how much will you sell the information for? I want sixty percent.”

“Thirty,” Quorn countered.

“Fifty.”

“Forty.”

Clint leaned forward. “Forty-five, and I’ll give you an exclusive.”

Quorn scowled. “Fine.”

Clint nodded. “I went to Down Below looking for Los – you know, the Tellarite who gave me the Chalice job?”

Quorn nodded. “I know him. Haven’t seen him around in a while, though.”

Clint carefully kept both his relief – and worry – from showing. What he didn’t plan on telling Quorn was that the entire job had been a scam – someone had impersonated Los and offered Clint money to steal the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, a holy Betazoid artifact and the only remains of Betazed's lost sister planet, Rixx. It had been Clint who’d realized that something was up and who’d told Los to run. 

If Los hadn’t been in contact with Quorn, it meant that he hadn’t spread the news that the job had been a fake, but it might mean that Los was either in hiding, or dead. Despite himself, Clint liked the contrary Tellarite, and hoped he was okay. 

“I got there,” Clint continued, “and before I could hand over the Chalice and get paid, two Nausicaans showed up. They demanded I give the Chalice to them.”

“Ugh, Nausicaans,” Quorn said with a shudder. “Nasty creatures. Did you know one hung me from my ankles once?”

“And you survived?” Clint asked in surprise. Nausicaans were notoriously violent.

Quorn shrugged. “Luckily for me, my associate arrived in time. Saved my skin, and more importantly, my latinum.” 

“‘Nothing is more important than your health,’” Clint started.

“‘Except your money,’” Quorn finished with a nod. “Rule of acquisition number twenty-three.” 

Clint shrugged. “Well, that was pretty much what happened to me, except it was a Federation captain who came to my rescue, and he got himself vaporized for his trouble.”

Quorn looked thoughtful. “So someone _is_ dead.”

Clint nodded. “Captain Robert Block.”

Clint didn’t really like to think about it. He’d thought he’d make a pretty penny for stealing the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, money he'd needed to keep his ship flying. He’d made off with it, too, except with Phil Coulson unexpectedly on his tail. 

Clint had managed to avoid Coulson – just. He’d made his way to Starbase G-6, thinking he’d hand the artifact over to Los and get well paid, but instead, he’d found the Nausicaans.

Los had gotten away clean, but Clint had quickly found himself in a fight for his life. Surprisingly, Coulson had shown up and helped him. In the fight, however, the old captain of the _U.S.S. Shield_ had been killed.

Admiral Fury had surprised Clint by offering him the chance to help solve Block’s murder instead of throwing him in jail for his crimes. Clint hadn’t hesitated to accept. He blamed himself for Block’s death, and if the questions Block’s murder had raised went unanswered, it would be Coulson who’d take the blame. 

Clint didn’t think it was right, but Coulson had lost his job with Starfleet Intelligence because he’d shot one of the Nausicaans before he could stab Clint. Luckily for Coulson, once Natasha had been promoted to captain of the _Shield,_ she’d needed a first officer. Coulson had accepted the position, but the threat of dishonorable discharge was still hanging over his head. 

Clint wanted to help. Coulson might have made Clint’s job a living hell for the past two years, but he was a good man – and he’d saved Clint’s life. Clint owed him.

Besides, he looked downright gorgeous when he scowled.

“Robert Block,” Quorn repeated. “Excellent. Well, I’ll see who’s interested in this information, and make sure that forty-five percent goes to your account. Now,” he laced his fingers together, “what kind of work were you looking for?”

Clint spread his hands. “I might be free, but I’m broke. I’m good for anything.”

“Hmm,” Quorn hummed. “Where are you?”

“Heading to oh-oh-eleven,” Clint lied easily. “I wanted to get away from Starfleet.”

Quorn nodded. “Well, like I said, ancient artifacts are a hot item. I got a few that’ll fetch a price.”

“Do you know who wanted the Chalice?” Clint asked. He did his best to keep his voice light, easy – he needed to stay casual. “I know it was Los who contacted me, but I was hoping you’d have an idea.”

It was hard to keep his tension from showing. Out of Quorn’s view, Harry went still and Coulson pressed his lips together. This information was the entire point of the call. Admiral Fury had asked for Clint’s help investigating Block’s murder because Clint knew people that Starfleet couldn’t officially acknowledge. That was why Clint had been asked to keep his involvement a secret, even from Danielle Cage, the _U.S.S. Shield_ ’s Chief Security Officer and the person heading up the investigation.

Clint had been forced to tell Harry when he’d asked for help setting up the call. She’d only shrugged. “It’s your funeral. I won’t say anything until you do.”

Of course, because Danielle Cage was a Betazoid, and telepathic like the rest of her people, that wouldn’t necessarily be enough, but Clint still appreciated the effort.

They really _would_ have to tell her, though, and sooner rather than later. Clint knew that, but he wanted to wait until he had something substantial to hand over, something that would prove Fury hadn’t been wrong to trust him with this in the first place. Clint figured the name of the person who’d wanted the Chalice would be a good place to start.

“Los works alone, you know that,” Quorn admonished. “I never saw the offer for the Chalice job.”

Clint had to hide his disappointment, while, safely out of view, Harry scowled and Coulson let his shoulders fall, but then Quorn grinned. “And yet, I _do_ have their transmission code.”

Clint perked up. “Quorn! You sneaky thief!”

Quorn chuckled. “I have a nephew who works at the DealMakers Exchange, he tags the incoming transmission codes of high-priced offers for me.”

Clint grinned. “Rule of acquisition number one hundred and ninety-four?”

“That’s one thing I like about you, boy, you do know your rules.”

Clint laughed. “‘It’s always good to know about new customers _before_ they walk in your door.’ Have you spoken with them?” 

Quorn nodded. “I sent them a wave when I heard the Chalice job fell through. They replied a standard day later.”

Clint tried to cover his excitement. “What do you know about them?”

Quorn shrugged. “Not much. They won’t give their name, but they offered a substantial amount for the Chalice, and when I explained it was beyond my reach, they said there was something else I could get for them.”

Clint could see Coulson frowning and making a _slow-down-and-think-about-this_ gesture, but he ignored him, focusing on Quorn. “That’s great! I didn’t want my reputation to suffer. What’s the job?”

“A jevonite dagger,” Quorn explained as Coulson’s gesture intensified. “Very rare, very expensive, from the First Hebitian Civilization on Cardassia Prime.”

“Huh.” Clint had heard of the Hebitians – rumour, more than anything else. “How much are they offering for it?” Quorn named the sum and Clint whistled. “Wow. Okay, I’m interested.”

Just at the edge of Clint’s field of vision, Coulson dropped his hands with an inaudible but completely visible huff.

“On Lissepia, apparently,” Quorn answered. “It _had_ been owned by a Gul named Madred, but since the Union fell apart, the Cardassians have stopped paying their bills. A Lessepian named Shss’esh has it now. He’s done well for himself – I hear he’s got a sizable complex on the planet where he keeps mementos of his various deals and profits.” Quorn frowned. “The lucky bastard.”

Clint held up a finger. “‘Never confuse wisdom with luck.’” 

Quorn scowled. “Don’t you quote rule forty-four at me, boy. Shss’esh is a du-grot water beetle, hard and unscrupulous, and he’s in neck-deep with the Orions.”

Clint frowned. The Orions ran a loosely assembled network called The Orion Syndicate, a mafia-like arrangement that specialized in the transport of goods, weapons, and slaves. They were divided into five families, with each family assuming control of a particular region of space. Clint had run into trouble with the local Vargrassi Family and had been forced to spend money he _would_ have used for ship repairs on bribes to keep a price off his head. “Which Orions?”

“The Contalioni,” Quorn said.

Clint breathed out a sigh of relief. “Okay, good.”

Quorn held up a finger. “Not so fast. The Contalioni might not hate you like the Vargrassi do, but they’re extremely powerful, quick-witted, and have long memories. Also, rumour has it that they’re displeased with the Vargrassi and are looking to move into their territory. Shss’esh is firmly in their pocket, and things could get ugly.” Quorn scowled. “Plus, he’s tall.”

Clint nodded sagely. “‘Never trust anyone taller than yourself.’”

Quorn looked smug. Most Ferengi were short compared to humans and other intelligent beings, and Quorn was small even for a Ferengi. Instead of taking offence, however, he used his stature to his advantage, enjoying it when people underestimated him. “Exactly. So, I’m willing to give you the contract, but you have to assure me there’ll be no missed opportunities this time.”

“Quorn, please,” Clint protested, “I can’t control the Orions. I’ll do my best, and my best has always been good enough before.”

“Before, yes,” Quorn pointed out. “Before the Chalice.”

Clint narrowed his eyes, recognizing that look. “What do you want?”

Quorn crossed his arms. “I want you to travel with backup.”

“Absolutely not,” Clint said firmly. “I work alone.” 

Quorn shrugged. “Then, alone, you don’t get this contract. I can’t take the chance a group of Nausicaans ambush you again and I lose the dagger.” He leaned forward, moving as if to switch off the transmission.

“Whoa, hey,” Clint interrupted. “Wait.”

Quorn stopped, looking up with a sly grin on his face. Clint groaned. The Ferengi had him by the lobes, and he knew it.

“Fine,” Clint said, giving in. “I guarantee I’ll have backup, and that you’ll get the dagger without incident.” He glared. “Is that good enough?”

“Good enough for now,” Quorn said, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. “You have six standard days, and then I’m giving this job to someone else.”

Clint scowled. “Fine, and stop that – there’s nothing uglier than a smug Ferengi.”

Quron grinned with all his teeth. “You know my information. Six standard days.” He cut the transmission.

Clint blew out a breath and leaned back. “Ugh, what a dung-beetle.” He looked up to where Harry and Coulson were waiting. “Well?”

Coulson was glaring. It really was unfair that he looked so attractive when he did that. “You should have checked with me before accepting any sort of contract!”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Quorn would have noticed if I’d looked away, or done anything differently than what I did. That was why I didn’t want you here for this meeting. You shouldn’t have distracted me like that.”

Coulson glowered. “Distracted?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, trying not to stare. He really _did_ love the way Coulson's eyes sparkled when he looked like this.

“You—” Coulson started.

Harry stepped forward. “Listen – " she interrupted, "what’s important now is that we’ve got a chance here. Clint can go in, steal the dagger, meet the buyer, and nab the guy who got Captain Block killed.”

Clint winced. “It’s... not actually that simple,” he admitted. Maybe Coulson had been right and he _should_ have checked in before agreeing.

Harry was frowning. “Why? What’s the problem?”

“First of all,” Coulson said, scowling as he raised a finger and ticked it off, “the Federation can’t endorse theft. Second, the mission is going to be tough to pull off, the security extremely difficult to circumnavigate. If it were anyone but Barton on this, I’d say it was impossible.”

Clint grinned. “Why, Phil, I’m flattered.”

Coulson didn’t seem to be amused. “And third,” he went on, “we can’t simply arrange to meet the person or persons who want the dagger ourselves – exchanges are typically done through intermediaries.”

Clint couldn’t help but feel smug. “So you _did_ learn something while chasing me around the galaxy.”

Coulson’s eyes narrowed dangerously. 

“So anyways,” Clint hurried on, “Coulson’s right, technically. It wouldn’t be the Federation on this, though – Admiral Fury _specifically_ hired me to do things the Federation couldn’t. If I go in quietly, in my own shuttle, there’ll be nothing to link me to you. I can get the dagger and get out without dragging Starfleet’s name through the mud.”

“And your promise to travel with backup?” Coulson questioned.

“That does put a twist on things. If I get the dagger without any major complications, Quorn will never find out if I have someone with me or not, but if I fail to steal it, I’ll never work in this sector again.”

“Oh no,” Coulson deadpanned. “However could I sleep at night?”

Harry chuckled. 

“Honestly, given my sheer talent and track record,” Clint said with a wink, “I’m not worried about it. What _I’m_ most worried about is after. How do we arrange to meet the buyer?”

Coulson sighed. “I have no idea.”

“I do.”

The unexpected voice made them all turn. Clint caught his breath at the sight of Danielle Cage leaning casually against _Lola_ ’s interior docking clamp. “Chief,” he started, without having any idea what he was going to say after that.

Cage held up a hand. “Don’t say anything. I understand why you and the captain chose not to include me in this. I’m upset about it, but I understand. What I want to focus on now is how to make the mission a success.”

Clint opened his mouth and then closed it, before opening it again. “Why?”

Her expression turned hard. “Because I want to get the bastards who killed a Federation captain in cold blood.” 

Harry bit her lip. “I can finish my work on _Lola_ ’s engines,” she offered hesitantly. “It wouldn’t take long, maybe another standard day, especially if I can get my engineering crew to help me.”

Cage nodded. “Let’s focus on getting Barton to Lissepia and back – we can work on how to arrange contact with the buyer later.” She ignored Clint and looked at Coulson. “We’re going to have to talk to the captain.”

“I agree.” Coulson was standing straight, his expression calm, but Clint knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders and hear the regret in his voice. What he didn’t know was if the regret was because he'd chosen not to include Cage, or because she’d found out anyway. 

Cage nodded and turned away from the shuttle. Coulson glanced back at Harry and Clint, then moved to follow her, indicating with a gesture that Clint should follow. 

Clint swallowed. He loved Natasha like a sister, but he knew that as much as she might want to get the people who killed Block, she was also a Starfleet captain now. There was no way she was going to allow them to do this.

 

*

 

“We have to figure out a way to do this.”

Natasha ignored the eyes of everyone in her office and paced. The ready room was starting to feel like hers, not Block’s, even though she’d yet to the move the paintings or go through the safe Clint had found. She was choosing to focus on Block as a generic Starfleet captain she respected, and not as a man she’d disliked. Focusing on his personal effects would force her to remember all the times she’d disagreed with his decisions.

Like now. Block would most certainly have ordered them as far away from Lissepia as he could. Natasha had no intention of doing that.

“The First Hebitian Civilization on Cardassia Prime is a nearly lost piece of Cardassian history,” Natasha explained. “I did my fourth year intensive research paper on it, and by extension the Cardassian people. The lost civilization continues to have ramifications for Cardassia today. Bringing back a piece of that history would be a momentous occasion, and an expression of goodwill from the Federation to the Cardassian people.”

Coulson’s look of surprise was turning thoughtful. “The planet does continue to suffer from the ramifications of the Dominion War,” he agreed. “The planet-wide genocide perpetrated by Jem’Hadar and the near-complete destruction of the Cardassian military were devastating to the security and the currency of the Union.”

Natasha stopped pacing and nodded. “And to the culture. Cardassians are still struggling to find their place in the galaxy. Giving back some measure of their history could be pivotal.”

“Except that it’s illegal,” Cage pointed out. “To get the jevonite dagger, we’d have to steal it.”

“Well,” Clint prevaricated, “Shss’esh doesn’t really _own_ the dagger. He merely kept it as insurance because the Cardassians stopped paying their bills.”

Cage frowned. “How much do they owe? Could we buy it from him?”

Coulson shook his head. “Shss’esh would have been owed money for the transport of weapons during the Dominion War. There’s no way Starfleet could pay that – not morally.”

Clint bit his lip. “I’d offer, but there’s no way I have that kind of money.”

“We could take a loan,” Coulson offered.

Clint snorted. “From who? The Ferengi?”

Natasha shook her head. “I want to keep this as quiet as possible.” She looked at every person in the room. “We should steal it.”

There was a moment of silence. 

Coulson caught her eye. “If we do this, we’ll make an enemy of Shss’esh and, through him, of the Orion Syndicate.”

Clint scowled. “Believe me, Coulson – _everyone_ is an enemy of the Syndicate. If you aren’t with them, you’re against them, and because the five families are always in competition, you’re screwed no matter which way you fly.”

Cage shook her head. “I’m not afraid of the Syndicate.”

Natasha held back a wince. Cage might have experience in both combat and the liberation of her home world from Dominion control, but in a lot of ways she was still very, very young.

Even Coulson went tight around the eyes. “Chief,” he said, his voice measured, “there are many powers in the galaxy. They might not teach this at the Academy, but trust me – the Syndicate is one of them.”

Cage frowned.

Natasha decided to redirect the conversation back to the mission. “How are we going to do this?”

Clint shrugged. “Harry is fixing up _Lola_ right now. I’ll leave the _Shield,_ head to Lissepia, infiltrate Shss’esh’s compound, and get the dagger. I’ll make sure to leave no trace of Starfleet, or this ship, behind me. I’ll return to _Lola_ and meet you back here.”

Coulson was staring at him. “Is this delinquent enthusiasm typically how you begin all your heists?”

Clint grinned with all his teeth. “Absolutely.”

“It’s a wonder you evaded me for so long.”

“I really thought I’d only last two weeks,” Clint admitted.

Coulson closed his eyes briefly. “Be as that may,” he continued after a moment’s pause, “I don’t like the idea of letting you leave the _Shield_ under your own power.”

Clint sighed. “I thought I’d proven by now that I’m not about to run.”

Coulson’s eyes narrowed. “Not in the slightest.”

Clint opened his mouth as if to argue, but Cage interrupted. “I agree with Commander Coulson,” she said. “You’re simply too great of an unknown. In addition, you promised Quorn you’d bring backup and I have to agree with him. We still don’t know who hired the Nausicaans or why they were waiting for you on Starbase G-6. It’s possible they could be on Lissepia too.”

Clint huffed. “Fine. As much as I hate it, I _do_ think I should bring someone with me, not only to appease Quorn, but because you’re not wrong about the Nausicaans. I’ve been trying to figure out who, and I think I know.” He turned to Cage. “You.” 

Cage blinked in surprise. “Me?”

Clint nodded. “I’ve read your file – you have experience with infiltration, and the reports from the retaking of Betazed are glowing. You have the physical training to do this, not to mention the whole — ” He waved a hand over his head. “ — telepathic thing. I’ll have no idea what I’m walking into or what the situation will be like, but having you there will make it easier.” 

Cage looked troubled. “Accompanying you would mean leaving my investigation here, along with abandoning the ship without a security chief and no one I know well enough to put temporarily in charge.” She shook her head. “I also disagree that my telepathic sense would be an asset – you’ve never served on a telepathic strike team. We do things differently than you, and require a high level of training and trust before deployment. Teams are usually linked telepathically before the mission begins, and are given time to become used to another’s presence in their mind.” She met Clint’s eyes. “Would you feel comfortable having me inside your head?”

Clint hesitated.

“I didn’t think so,” Cage went on, “and I don’t particularly want to _be_ in your head. It’s an intensely private, intimate, experience. If done without training, it can be dangerous, not to mention a distraction rather than an asset.” She looked pained. “As much as I might want to, I don’t think I’m the right person to accompany you on this mission.”

Clint seemed frustrated. “If not you, than who? Who else has the training?”

Cage looked at Coulson. “He does.”

Coulson blinked. “Excuse me?”

“He’s spent the past two years studying you, knows all your tactics, and is better prepared to deal with the unexpected situations that – so I’ve read – tend to happen on your missions.”

Clint frowned. “Well, yes, I guess that’s true, but…”

“I _would_ feel more comfortable watching you myself,” Coulson said, looking thoughtful.

Clint glared. “To make sure I don’t take off?”

Coulson met his gaze and held it. “Yes, and to make sure you don’t ditch your comm and complete the mission without backup.”

“I would never!”

Cage, Coulson, and Natasha all looked at him. Clint shifted. “I’ve only thought about it, like, a half dozen times at most.”

Natasha shook her head. “Fine, then it’s settled. You’ll leave at oh-six-hundred. I believe Wizard Dresden said she and her crew could be finished by then.” She cocked an eyebrow at them, silently asking for agreement and expecting no dissension. 

Coulson nodded. “I’ll be ready.” 

Natasha looked at Clint. Reluctantly, he nodded back.

“Good,” Natasha said firmly. She loved Clint like a brother, but she couldn’t swear he wouldn’t run if offered the chance. She knew too well the seductive call of an open shuttle, the promise of space, and the allure of freedom that waited in the black. She was positive he’d leave the dagger somewhere for them to pick up, but then he’d be gone. 

She would never stop him if that was what he truly wanted, but she could see the change in him that had occurred since he’d come to the _Shield._ He was easier, more relaxed, and the tension he always carried between his shoulder blades was looser. He looked happy. “I’ll meet you both in the shuttle bay beside the _Lola_ at that time. Dismissed.”

The two men shared a look, turned, and left. The door whispered shut behind them.

Cage stood still, watching them. She didn’t move. 

“Chief?” Natasha asked. 

Cage turned to her. “I’d like to ask you something, if I may.”

“If it’s about why I chose not to include you in the investigation,” Natasha started, her words coming out sharper than she’d intended. She’d had her reasons, and she’d felt they were good ones, but faced with Cage’s unhappy face, Natasha couldn’t be sure she’d made the right choice. She also felt irrationally guilty about not sending Cage with Clint on this mission, like she’d owed the security chief something to make up for the way Natasha had lied to her, and had failed to provide it. She understood that Coulson was the better choice, and why, but, oddly, that didn’t make Natasha feel better. 

“It’s not,” Cage interrupted, reassuring her. “I can’t say I’m thrilled by the decision, but I understand it.” She hesitated. “There’s a human saying I learned on Earth – ‘sometimes the right hand can’t know what the left hand is doing.’” She made a face. “If this had gone to trial, it might have been important to distance the Federation from Barton’s sources.”

Natasha found herself reevaluating her estimation of Danielle Cage. “That is a very politically astute observation, Commander.”

Cage chuckled. “I had a bit of a crash course in the Academy. As you can imagine, we do things a little differently on Betazed.”

“I suppose you do,” Natasha admitted. She could hardly picture it – an entire government and governing body made up of telepaths. No lying, no obfuscation… she had no framework for how such a government could function. “I’m sure it’s very different.”

“It is,” Cage agreed. She hesitated. “For example, what I’m about to ask next would be unremarkable on Betazed, but I find myself hesitating. I’m unsure how much of this question is personal in nature, and how much is professional, and I’m not certain exactly how to ask it, or, perhaps more importantly, if I even should.” She pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t want to presume the trespass of friendship.”

Natasha sat carefully in her chair, aware of her captaincy and Cage’s own position of authority, but also of how much she _liked_ the security chief. There was a truthfulness to her that Natasha found alien, yet exotic. 

She was also very beautiful.

“I’m not sure that such a friendship exists,” Natasha said carefully, “but I believe that it could, with time.” There. Surely that didn’t promise too much?

Cage smiled. “I’m happy to hear that,” she said, and then paused. “My question has to do with your response to Mr. Barton’s plan. I hadn’t guessed it would be so... enthusiastic.” She frowned. “No, that’s the wrong word to use.” 

Natasha found herself chuckling. “I suppose telepaths have no need of an extensive vocabulary.”

Cage smiled. “Another thing the Academy provided.” She winked. “Not always in class, either.”

Natasha leaned back in her chair, smiling. “Oh?”

Cage grinned. “Let’s just say, one day I’ll buy you a martini and tell you about the time I ended up in bed with a parrot, a vat of chocolate, and a Tellarite.”

Natasha laughed. It caught her off guard, but it was… nice. This was the second time since she’d met her that Cage had startled her into a laugh. Natasha hid her fluster with a cough. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You mentioned you were concerned. Why?”

Cage hesitated again. “It was more that I was surprised. You seem to feel, very deeply, for the Cardassian people.”

It was a real struggle to keep her emotions from showing, but fortunately, Natasha had years of practice not only hiding her feelings, but burying the feelings themselves. It was more difficult after laughing, though, and, for a moment, she wondered if Cage had done that on purpose.

No. There was nothing sinister about Danielle; that was part of her charm.

“I do feel deeply for them,” Natasha admitted slowly. “It wasn’t just the paper I wrote, but the contacts I made because of it. I exchanged mail for several years with prominent Cardassian scientists, as well as minor officials within the Cardassian government, and then, of course, I fought against them in the war.” She took a deep breath. “What happened to Cardassia in the last days of the war was monstrous. They had inflicted monstrosity on others, of course, and there are those who would argue that it was poetic justice, but I can’t agree. There’s another human saying, ‘An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.’” Natasha paused. “I’ve found myself thinking of that quite often since the war.”

Cage blinked, and then smiled slowly. “I hadn’t heard that phrase before. I like it.”

Natasha nodded. “What good is it to wish destruction on people? The common woman living in the Cardassian Union would have known nothing of the atrocities committed on Bajor. She would not feel the loss of her people and her family as ‘justice,’ poetic or otherwise.”

Cage cocked her head. “Would she truly have known nothing?”

Natasha sighed. “The Cardassian Union didn’t have free speech as you or I would recognize it. They didn’t have journalism. The average woman would have known nothing except what her government told her about the reasons Cardassia joined the Dominion’s side in the war.”

“She wouldn’t have questioned?”

Natasha shook her head. “No. It’s a very militaristic, very rigid culture. It may seem bizarre to human or Betazoid sensibilities, but it’s extremely interesting, especially when one takes the First Hebitian Civilization into account.”

“How so?”

“Most modern-day Cardassians look down on the Hebitians,” Natasha explained, warming to her subject. “They view them as backward, stupid – the Hebitians had a very involved religion, with several gods and many rituals. However, when disaster struck Cardassia Prime, their religion was unable to save them. In the void left by the failure of their gods, the military leaders came and promised security for their people. The people believed them – not as one or two or three individuals or small groups, but as an entire people. Fascinatingly, it does not look as though such a shift happened slowly, over many years, as it typically has on other planets, such as Earth. It happened almost instantly, within a year – the entire civilization abandoned their gods and embraced the military as the new religion.”

Cage looked troubled. “That’s horrible.” 

Natasha shrugged. “That’s Cardassians. They’re rigid – stiff. They’ve always been so. But a stiff people extends out like a lever – sometimes the right force, at the right time, in the right place, can shift it.”

“And when it shifts, it shifts as one,” Cage finished.

Natasha nodded. “The Hebitian civilization was lost and the military rose in its place. Now, the military has found that, like the priests and priestess before them, they’ve failed. They’ve proved themselves unequal to this new threat.” She spread her hands. “Perhaps it’s foolish to imagine that the retrieval of one small piece of history can push the remains of Cardassia in a new direction, but I think it would be more foolish not to try.”

“In a new direction, or an old one,” Cage pointed out. “I wonder what their gods think of what the civilization has become?”

Natasha smiled. “Are you religious, Chief?”

Cage shook her head. “I’m spiritual, more than anything else. Like many Betazoids, I believe in the Great Mother who watches over the galaxy, but acknowledge that She has many faces, and is known by many names.” She smiled. “She also has many children, maybe the Cardassian gods are hers.”

Natasha found herself smiling back. “Maybe so.”

“Well,” Cage said, leaning back in her chair. “So you want to save Cardassia Prime.” 

Natasha blushed. It felt strange, she hadn’t blushed in years. Cage wasn’t mocking her though — she sounded charmed. “No, I don’t,” Natasha clarified, “I wouldn’t mind saving one piece of its history, though.”


	2. Chapter Two

“Okay, listen – I got the engines working, impulse drive is fine and warp should be good so long as we don’t overdo it,” Harry found herself saying. Her mouth was moving but her brain wasn’t quite aligned with it – she was vaguely aware that she was speaking too fast, and might be slurring her words together, but she’d stayed up all night to finish the repairs on time and she didn’t honestly care if she was understandable now. 

“She’ll fly?” Clint asked. He sounded anxious. Standing behind him, Captain Romanova was looking over the ship. Commander Coulson waited beside her.

Harry nodded. “She’ll fly.” It wasn’t an unreasonable fear – _Lola_ had been badly damaged. If she could, Harry would keep her grounded for another week to go over the repairs and test the connections, but the captain needed her now, so now she was ready. “I’ll need to monitor the flow-output value, and make a few corrections as we fly, and of course the secondary power coupling could short out at any time, but,” Harry rubbed her eyes, “she’ll fly.”

Clint frowned. “Are we allowed to launch her in this condition?”

Harry waved dismissively. “You aren’t officially a part of Starfleet so I don’t have to abide by their flight safety recommendations. We’re good.”

Clint looked alarmed, and Coulson was frowning. “Wait,” he said. “What do you mean ‘I’?”

Harry blinked. “What?” It was possible she was too tired for this conversation.

“You said ‘I’ll need to monitor,’” Coulson clarified.

“Of course me,” Harry asked, affronted. “Who else?”

Coulson frowned. “While we’re flying?”

Harry squinted. “When else would it break?”

Clint stood straighter. “Wait, you mean you’re coming with us?”

Harry threw up her arms. “Yes!”

“No!” Clint protested. “Harry, we’re going into enemy territory – undercover – and I’m sorry to say this, but you kind of stand out.”

Harry glared at him. She knew she was tall – or rather, that other people were short – but she’d manage. “I _have_ done undercover before,” she argued. “Sometimes a miracle worker is needed and when that happens, Starfleet sends me.”

“This won’t be like Argan Four or Perelli Five,” Coulson warned her, proving at least that he’d read her file. “This will be an undercover mission as mercenaries, or at least the kind of people who shoot to kill.”

Harry felt her eyes go flat. Maybe he _hadn’t_ read her history, after all. “I’ll be fine.”

Coulson opened his mouth as if to protest but, thankfully, Clint stepped forward. “She’ll be fine.” 

Coulson stared at him for a moment, then looked back to Harry. He shrugged. “You’ll be fine.”

Harry squinted. She felt like that should have been more difficult. “Good. Great. Grab your stuff,” she said, waving a hand at the bags they had at their feet, presumably containing equipment or changes of clothes or something, “and I’ll go — ” She pointed back at the ship. “ — get settled in and maybe sleep until something explodes.”

Coulson nodded and picked up his things. “Do you have all the equipment you’ll need?”

Harry rubbed a hand over her face. “Yeah, I’m good. I had one of my Little Folk fetch stuff. I’ll be fine.”

Captain Romanova, still standing behind Clint, raised an eyebrow. “‘Little Folk?’”

Harry should _definitely_ be more awake for this conversation. “Yeah, Little Folk.” She made a vague gesture at what would be Toot-toot’s height. “My engineers. They’re all tiny.”

Clint laughed, quickly turning the outburst into a cough.

Harry glared. Her engineers didn’t mind the nickname, or at least, those who did had already transferred off the ship. “What?”

“Nothing,” Clint said, still sounding like he was holding back a laugh. “Why don’t you go sleep, we’ll take off, and I’ll wake you if something starts to rattle like it shouldn’t.”

Coulson frowned. “Are things ever supposed to rattle?”

Harry shook her head and turned back to the ship. “I’m going to sleep.”

She’d spent so much time with _Lola_ over the past few days, first with Clint and then with her engineering team, that Harry felt like she knew her every nut and bolt. She hadn’t spent much time in the tiny bunk in the back cabin, though. It was small and short like every other bed except those she custom-built, but it was comfortable. She sank down onto it with a sigh. 

Sleep. Glorious sleep.

Harry awoke several hours later to find they’d left the _Shield_. She blinked at the ceiling of Clint’s cabin aboard the _Lola_ and wondered if Toot was keeping her engine room clean. 

He most likely was. The little Vulcan was well used to the _Shield_ and all her needs, and of course he’d have Mike and Elidee and the rest of the team to help him. 

They’d be fine.

Levering herself off the cot, Harry reached her arms above her head and stretched as best she was able. She still couldn’t completely extend her elbows, but at least she could flex her toes. Harry sighed. _Lola_ might be a beautiful machine, but in the end she just wasn’t built for a woman of Harry’s size.

Harry patted the wall kindly. “You’re Clint’s, I get that,” she told the ship. “I’m only here for a little while anyway.”

Splashing some water on herself from the refresher, Harry slipped on her customary black leather duster and made her way up to the front cabin. _Lola_ was designed primarily as a shuttle – she had a forward piloting section with a large viewport, a small common area that would seat four only if they were very comfortable with each other, a rear cabin, an engine room, and a small storage space. She hadn’t been built on a popular design – the military typically wanted more weapons and smugglers preferred a larger cargo space – but she was good for a single traveller going either long or short distances.

Harry paused in the common area to order coffee from the replicator and inhaled deeply when it materialized. Mmm, caffeine. 

Clint appeared suddenly in front of her. “Did you upgrade my replicator?”

Harry blinked. “That old thing? Please. I tore it out and replaced it with an entirely new machine, uploaded the latest Federation food-drink datafiles, and installed a secondary power generator just in case something happens to the primary one.” She took a lingering sip. “And it was worth it.”

Clint went down on one knee. “Please marry me.”

A choking sound came from the front of the ship. Harry looked over in concern but could see only Coulson. “Like you could afford me, Barton,” she said, turning back to Clint. “I am a refined woman of many tastes. You, on the other hand, are just easy.”

Clint put a hand on his chest. “I resemble that remark.”

She requested another coffee and made her way to the bow. Coulson looked up with a complicated expression as she perched on a ledge in front of the pilot’s seat, just below the viewscreen. “Barton may be undemanding,” he warned, “but nothing about him is ‘easy.’”

Harry smirked and handed over the second coffee, noting Coulson’s pleasant surprise. “I bet if I offered, he’d fall into bed with me right now.”

“Harry, making love to you in that cabin would be a challenge,” Clint said with a grin, “but challenges are what make life worth living.”

Coulson snorted. 

Clint ignored him, turning back to Harry and waggling his eyebrows. “So what do you say? Should we try it?”

Harry snorted. “No, thank you, I prefer my dignity in one piece, not shredded. Besides, you’re like that annoying younger brother who keeps following me around.”

“And getting into trouble,” Coulson added.

Clint shot him a look. “Getting her _out_ of trouble, you mean.”

Harry rolled her eyes. “Fine, you can be the older brother.” She squinted at Coulson. “Does that make you our uncle?”

Coulson’s lips flattened. “I’m not _that_ much older than you.”

Clint leered. “Besides, I hardly think of Coulson as _kin._ That would be kinky.”

Coulson said nothing, but two spots of colour appeared on his cheeks.

Harry chuckled and took a sip of her coffee, and then turned when the navigation computer started chirping. “We’re here.”

“We’re entering the outer reaches of the Lissepian system,” Coulson clarified. “It will still take us fifteen to twenty minutes to reach the planet.”

“Well, we’d better get into character,” Clint said, pushing away from the seat. He stretched his arms above his head, proving that, unlike Harry, he could do it. “This’ll be fun.”

Harry rolled her eyes. Clint didn’t have to change much – he was wearing well-fitted, dark brown pants with multiple pockets. They seemed to be flexible enough to move in, but tight enough to show off his ass – she might think of him as a brother, but that didn’t mean she was _blind_ – and a short-sleeved shirt, again snug but not too tight. He also wore his collapsible bow on his wrist. She didn’t think he ever took it off. 

Bringing his arms down, Clint crossed the small cabin and pulled a thigh-holster from a compartment, bending over to strap it to his left leg. Instead of holding a phaser, though, it was only a box. Harry looked at it curiously until Clint showed her how, with a flick of his wrist, he could pop open the lid and reveal several densely packed rows of extendible arrows.

“See?” he said, pressing his thumb to the side of the box to activate the mechanism. Instantly the first row of arrows popped up, fully extended and ready to be used. “From here I can reach them easily whether I’m standing, sitting, or kneeling – or, for that matter, crawling through the dirt. I arrange them by heads – the first row is standard, second is armour-piercing, third is trick, and so on.”

Harry was impressed. “I’d love to have a look at the tech one day.”

Clint shrugged and didn’t answer. “The bonus part is that it makes me look non-threatening.” He gestured to his ensemble. “Who worries about a man standing around with no obvious weapons?”

Harry had to admit that he was right – Clint looked like some guy you’d pass on the street. Coulson, in contrast, looked every inch the mercenary. He’d changed at some point out of his regular uniform and into a pair of pants similar to Clint’s, except that they were black. He also wore a long-sleeved black shirt and black jacket and, as Harry watched, he pulled a phaser rifle by its strap over his head. It wasn’t Federation standard and it fit him well – he arranged it so he could access it easily, laying it to rest against his back but adjusting the strap so he could swing it around to his chest with a twist of his shoulders. 

He also wore a holster, but it held a standard non-descript phaser – also not of Federation make. Curiously, both weapons looked worn – the grips were smooth, the emitters shiny where they had been repeatedly cleaned.

Clint must have noticed the same thing. “Nice gear, Coulson. Where’d this come from? Your personal collection?”

“Yes,” Coulson confirmed dryly.

Clint looked surprised. “Oh.”

Harry stepped back and whistled. “You two sure make quite the team.” They looked deadly; Clint’s open expression and lighter clothes contrasted well to Coulson’s blank gaze and dark ensemble. The two of them side-by-side would give anyone pause – Clint looked like a charmer, while Coulson gave the impression of being aware of everything around him. “You look like a con artist and his well paid, no-nonsense mercenary.”

“Where’s the lie?” Clint asked with a shrug.

Coulson shook his head. “I am dressed purely out of caution.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Come on, Coulson – you can’t deny that it’s fun to get out of uniform and throw a rifle over your shoulder sometimes.”

Coulson glared. “If things go south enough that I have to shoot someone, I’ll be upset, and if I’m upset, I’m liable to miss and shoot _you._ ”

“You forget, I’ve seen you in action,” Clint countered with a smirk. “You wouldn’t miss. You’re one hundred percent badass.”

Coulson pressed his lips together irritatedly, but he couldn’t hide the fact that he still looked pleased.

Harry chuckled and ducked into the back. In contrast to her companions, she actually needed to change. She stripped quickly out of the uniform she’d slept in and used Clint’s small sonic shower to wash the sweat from her skin. Pulling out the bag Toot had fetched for her, she pulled on a pair of light brown leggings and a black thigh-length shirt, then put her usual black duster back on. She wore it while on the _Shield_ but it wasn’t Starfleet issue – she’d made it herself, as she did the majority of her equipment.

Going through her pockets, Harry quickly left everything that could trace her back to Starfleet on the bed, which was mostly her engineering tricorder and diagnostic scanner. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the personal versions of both instruments that she’d constructed. Her own equipment was more specialized than Starfleet’s, more powerful, but less adept at working with Federation stock. That wasn’t going to be a problem where they were going.

She swept everything off the bed and into a drawer, hiding all evidence of Starfleet's presence from a cursory scan before turning to head back to the piloting section. She found Clint at the helm making the descent to the planet, and returned Coulson’s nod when he glanced around at her. “Ready whenever you are.”

Clint really was an excellent pilot, and he clearly knew _Lola _inside and out. Harry's minor modifications to the guidance systems didn’t seem to hinder him, and he landed the ship without a bump.__

__“Transporters not powerful enough to beam us down from orbit?” Harry asked. “Damn, I knew I forgot to upgrade something.”_ _

__Clint shook his head as he shut down the engines. “Don’t worry about it. The automated defence mechanisms work better on the ground, anyway.”_ _

__Harry remembered the very dangerous bank of explosives she’d found when she and the Little Folk had been going over the ship and swallowed. “Right.”_ _

__“So,” Clint said, pressing one last button and then spinning around in his chair. Beyond them, past the viewscreen, the spaceport bustled with pilots coming and going. “Let’s do this.”_ _

__“Wait,” Coulson said calmly, holding up a hand. “Do you even know where you’re going?”_ _

__Clint shrugged. “Shss’esh has a large compound, probably fully staffed. It’s got to be around here somewhere.”_ _

__Harry rolled her eyes. “Very scientific. Do you even know what you’ll do when you stumble across it?”_ _

__Clint glared. “I _have_ done this before, you know. I’ll look around, eyeball the property, and determine the best way in and out.”_ _

__“And then you’ll, what?” Harry asked. “Just steal the dagger?”_ _

__“Yes,” Clint huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest._ _

__“No,” Coulson said firmly. “What we _will_ do is find a way to retrieve the dagger without implicating the Federation or, less importantly, ourselves. To that end we will recon the property.” He lifted a padd. “Shss’esh’s compound is two point four kilometers from here, in the northeastern end of the city, consisting of three separate buildings connected by short hallways, standing two stories tall, and protected by numerous defence systems.”_ _

__Clint blinked._ _

__Coulson put down the padd. “I did my research.”_ _

__Clint’s face broke into a large grin. “Coulson, you dog. You got into your old Intelligence files, didn’t you?”_ _

__Coulson’s expression didn’t waver. “I’m sure my old passwords have all been changed.”_ _

__Clint chuckled. “Yeah, but you got into them anyway.” He clapped his hands together. “Okay! So now we know a direction, and we have a plan. Perfect. I’ll go first and recon the property.”_ _

__Harry frowned. “Shouldn’t someone go with you?”_ _

__Reluctantly, Coulson shook his head. “No. Barton is the perfect person to make first contact. He has the experience needed to look over the building and eyeball the security measures, and if he’s caught, he could make a reasonable excuse about attempting to look for employment. You and I,” he said to Harry, “would only stand out.”_ _

__Clint shot her grin. “Don’t worry about me, Harry, I live for this stuff.” He threw an old brown jacket over his shoulders and shook out the wrists so the cuff concealed his collapsible bow, then threw his arms open for their inspection. “How do I look?”_ _

__Harry thought he looked pretty good, with the tousled dark blonde hair, scruffy jacket, and form-fitting pants._ _

__Coulson seemed to think the same, because he cleared his throat before answering. “You’ll do.”_ _

__Clint shot him a grin, and then turned to Harry. “I’ll keep my comm on. Stay here and don’t let anyone break into my ship.”_ _

__Harry put a hand on her chest. “I would never.”_ _

__Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He shot a glance at Coulson. “And don’t take off without me.”_ _

__Coulson gave him a flat look. “I’ve spent two years chasing you, I’m not about to turn around and abandon you now.”_ _

__Clint grinned. “Good point,” he said with a wave. “Okay. Bye.”_ _

__

__*_ _

__

__Phil shook his head as Barton turned and walked away from the ship._ _

__“I don’t think he meant it,” Harry said. She sounded like she was trying to be reassuring. “He’s just teasing.”_ _

__“That’s all he ever does,” Phil said, surprised by how bitter the words came out. He cleared his throat and banished the way Barton always _pushed_ – frowning and laughing and constantly edging past all the walls, all the barricades, that Phil tried to put up. The man was as adept at making Phil crazy now as he had been when he was still at large, galavanting around the galaxy with Phil left to nip at his heels._ _

The only difference was that now he couldn’t avoid Barton’s teasing grin by locking himself up with security files and claiming it was for ‘research.’ He had to look at Barton every day – see him both on duty and off – and _want._

Phil cleared his throat. “Come on,” he said, gesturing back to the computers. It would be just like old times, tracking Barton though his screens and trying to predict just what the man would do. At least he wasn’t stuck on the _Shield,_ wondering if Barton was going to run away from Starfleet or provoke a firefight and get himself killed. “We can keep an eye on him from here.” 

__Harry nodded and followed him, claiming the small workstation that might have been a co-pilot’s seat if Barton had ever worked with a team before. Instead, it’d been converted into what passed for a science section, with comms and more detailed engineering information than the pilot received._ _

__“I’ll see if I can hack into the government computer system, maybe get more detailed information about the complex,” Harry said. “I might be able to get a visual.”_ _

__That would be wonderful. “Do what you can,” Phil agreed, calling up his own files on Shss’esh. He ignored the way Barton had been right about Phil hacking into the Intelligence database to get them – he was half convinced that Nick had left that back door open just for him, anyway._ _

__Starfleet Intelligence had quite the file on Shss’esh. They didn’t have a complete floor plan of his complex, but the Lissepian used to transport weapons for Cardassia during the war, and Starfleet knew his ship._ _

“The _Nash’ha_ returned to Lissepia yesterday,” Phil said, accessing the publically available records. “That’s Shss’esh’s main cargo vessel. It seems likely he’s home.” 

__Harry looked over. “I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.”_ _

__Phil shrugged. “At this point, it’s all just data.”_ _

__“Spoken like a true handler,” Harry said with a grin._ _

__Phil frowned. “Did you have a handler on Perelli Five?”_ _

__“Ugh, yes,” Harry said with a groan. “Lieutenant Commander Donald Morgan, a by-the-book stickler if ever there was one.”_ _

__“Morgan, Morgan…” Phil repeated, thinking back. The name was familiar. “He was mentioned somewhere else in your file, wasn’t he?”_ _

__Harry’s expression shuttered. “Yes.”_ _

__Phil might not have Barton’s easy ability to read people, but he knew when to back off. “I’m sorry,” he said, clearing his throat and turning back to his screens. He could look up Donald Morgan another time._ _

__Or, he realized suddenly, he could leave it alone and let Harry talk to him if and when she chose to. Phil made a face. It seemed Barton wasn’t the only one who had to adjust to working in a team._ _

__“No, I’m sorry,” Harry said with a sigh, surprising him. She turned to Phil. “Morgan was one of the Starfleet officers who found me on Aldebaran Three.”_ _

__Phil looked up at her. “Oh,” he said. He knew something of Harry’s history, her parents’ early death, and her ‘adoption’ by Justine DuMorne. “I’m sorry.”_ _

__Harry shrugged and turned back to her screens. “It was a long time ago.”_ _

__Phil nodded. Time didn’t actually heal all wounds, but he respected Harry’s decision to redirect the conversation. “Any luck with the government database?”_ _

__Harry hitched a shoulder as she typed. “I’m almost there.”_ _

__Phil left her to it and went back to skimming information about Shss’esh, glancing often at the map of the city and wondering exactly where Barton was. He felt itchy without eyes on the man, and then remembered that, unlike on Ni’Lel or Lotos Four, he and Hawkeye were now on the same side._ _

__“Barton,” Phil said, activating his comm. “Can you hear me?”_ _

__The connection burst to life, Barton’s warm voice suddenly in his ear. “Loud and clear,” he said. The connection was flawless, Federation technology even though they weren’t using a Federation channel. “I’m on the street, heading northeast.”_ _

__Phil nodded, checking the map. “We’re working on getting you more information, but we know that Shss’esh is an established collector. He likely has a trophy room, probably in the main building, perhaps on the second floor. Security systems are thought to include a bioscanner and at least one additional measure.”_ _

__“Probably a remote activated wide-beam stun phaser,” Barton replied. The faint sounds of street traffic echoed over the comm. “He wouldn’t want anything that could accidentally damage his collection.”_ _

__“He must have a transport beam scatterer as well,” Phil agreed._ _

__“It looks like the majority of the city is connected to the main power bank,” Harry said, speaking up from her place beside Phil, “except for a section in the northeast. It seems Shss’esh has a private power reserve.”_ _

__“Probably to protect his security measures,” Barton said._ _

__Phil nodded. “Most likely.” He tapped the screen. “Be alert, Shss’esh’s personal transport is stationed on planet, he’s probably home.”_ _

__“They don’t call me ‘Hawkeye’ for nothing,” Clint said with a scoff. “I’ll see him before he sees me.”_ _

__Phil rolled his eyes, but settled back into his chair in silence as Barton walked, the comm quiet except for the occasional hitch of Barton’s breathing, until finally the sounds of street traffic faded and Barton sucked in a breath. “I’m here.”_ _

__Phil straightened and leaned forward. He zoomed in on his map of the city. “Where?”_ _

__“Sign says Meen’arr Street,” Barton said, which matched where Phil was looking on the map. “There’s a wall, but I can see from here that your information was correct – the complex is right in front of me and there are three buildings. The one in the middle is clearly two stories tall. Open concept, lots of windows. I can see the faint shimmer of a force field over the main building and it looks like it’s designed to go all the way to the wall.” He paused, then huffed slightly before breathing out. His voice, when he spoke again, was significantly lowered. “The wall isn’t activated right now. I should be able to sneak around the outside without difficulty, but it’ll be tough to get inside.”_ _

__“Barton,” Phil intoned with a sneaking suspicion. “Did you just hop the wall?”_ _

__“No one saw me,” Barton said, infuriatingly calm. “It might be our only chance.”_ _

Phil felt his jaw clenching. “You have no idea if anyone saw you! This mission was supposed to be recon _only._ ” 

__“This is recon, what did you expect? I couldn’t see much from outside.”_ _

__Phil tried to keep his voice calm. “What if the wall was fitted with sensor nets? Or if they have a visual of the outside?”_ _

__“Then I guess this mission will get pretty interesting,” Barton dismissed. He paused for a moment, and then said, “Huh. It looks like Shss’esh is throwing a party.”_ _

__Phil had never wished so hard for visual sensors. “Why? What do you see?”_ _

__Barton’s voice was still low. “Well, there’s an open courtyard in front of the property, pretty big, about fifty meters long. He’s got it half-strung with heating coils. A few tables have also been set out, and it looks like there are boxes filled with what seem to be decorations. I think they’ll go up later.”_ _

__Harry was tapping quickly at her screen. “There’s nothing in the city databases. It must be a private event.” She looked up. “What do the heating coils look like?”_ _

__“Uh, pretty standard,” Barton said. “Black casing composed of three rings, with a silver wire running through it.”_ _

__Harry was nodding. “Can you break one?”_ _

__“What?” It took Phil a moment to realize that both he and Barton had asked in tandem._ _

__Harry shrugged. “It sounds like you might not be able to get over the wall twice. If you break one, I can come by later and fix it, pretend I’m a hired mechanic or something.”_ _

__Phil had to admit that was a good idea. “Good thinking.”_ _

__Harry looked pleased. Barton could be heard fussing with something over the comm._ _

“I’m not sure I — ” There was an audible _snap._ “Oops. Uh, how broken do you want this?” 

__She scowled. “It has to be fixable, Barton.”_ _

__“Right. Um… Whoops.” There was the sound of something falling. “Wait, I’ll—”_ _

__Harry groaned and dropped her face into her hands. “I should have just told you to breathe on it. That would probably have been enough.”_ _

__“No, come on, I can — ” Barton cut himself off, and his breathing quieted. “Guys,” he whispered. “Someone’s here.”_ _

__Phil straightened quickly. “Who? Where? Can you get away?” Dammit, he should have gone with him._ _

__“Not without being seen,” Barton admitted. “I’m hiding behind a column right now. I think I can — ”_ _

__He cut himself off again, just as Harry did something and managed to get them a visual, projecting an image of the planet on the forward viewscreen. “I hacked into the government satellites in orbit and trained them on the area,” she explained._ _

__Phil spared a second to worry about legalities, then decided this entire mission was clearly outside the law, so it hardly mattered. On the screen, the picture blurred and then refocused, and Phil could see the city as it must look from orbit. The picture blurred again, and then they were zoomed in on the northeast quarter. Another blur, and they could see Shss’esh’s complex, and the small figure that must be Barton hiding behind a stone column._ _

__It was indeed a large complex. Phil hadn’t spent much time on Lissepia, but the connected buildings stretched almost the size of a city block. The front lawn was a large courtyard, tiled but not protected by an overhang, with potted plants scattered in various locations. The figure Phil assumed to be Barton crouched, then moved quickly to hide behind a small bush. He stayed low enough that he hopefully wouldn’t be visible from the complex. There were several long windows, and while Phil’s angle made it impossible to see into them, it would be easy for people inside to see out._ _

__Clint maybe had a chance of spotting someone before they saw him. Thankfully for Phil, each corridor had several skylights that gave him a partial visual._ _

__Barton was completely exposed from this vantage point, though. Phil could only hope no one else was watching the satellite feed. “What do you see?” he asked Barton._ _

__“Three individuals, one looks to be Lissepian, it’s probably Shss’esh,” Barton said, his voice barely audible. “The two others…”_ _

__He trailed off. Phil caught a glimpse through a skylight and felt his entire body tighten. “Barton,” he said carefully, “those are Orions.”_ _

Harry sucked in a breath. “I _hate_ Orions,” she muttered. 

“I’m getting out of here,” Barton said. “I’ll try for the wall. I might be able to — _urk._ ” 

__Phil found himself on his feet as he stared at the viewscreen, watching helplessly as a figure he hadn’t seen – whom no one had seen, clearly – detached itself from the bush behind Clint and pointed a weapon at his head._ _

__It was a woman, also green-skinned, wearing what appeared to be a thin fabric made out of nearly translucent material. Phil thought of pheromones, of mind-control, and worried suddenly – desperately – for Barton’s safety._ _

__“Clint,” Phil said stiffly, teeth nearly clenched together. “Don’t breathe.”_ _

“Well, well,” the woman said, her calm, amused voice clearly audible over Barton’s com. “The infamous Hawkeye. This _will_ be an interesting day.” 


	3. Chapter Three

Clint kept his hands open at his sides and slowly turned around. There was an Orion woman staring at him, phaser held confidently in one hand. She was beautiful – all Orions were – with dark, silky hair and eyes that glinted green, a pale reflection of her brightly tinted skin. She was smaller than him, but not by much. Her outfit – he couldn’t call it clothing – left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

She was smiling at him, though, clearly used to her own near-nakedness and obviously amused, and her smile only widened further when he recognized her. He couldn’t very well say anything, not while holding his breath, but his eyes must have widened.

“That’s right,” she confirmed, “I work for the Vargrassi Family. I was dancing that day in Down Below when the Nausicaans attacked. I witnessed the fight, saw the men killed, and watched you leave with a Starfleet officer.” Her eyes glinted. “I know you’re still working with them.”

Clint felt his heart stutter. She _had_ to be bluffing. There was no way she could know that for certain. Clint couldn’t exactly deny it effectively without saying anything, though, so he ended up only shaking his head. His lungs were starting to burn with the lack of oxygen.

She chuckled and stepped back, lowering her phaser. “I know you respect our powers, and rightly so, but you have nothing to fear from _me,_ Hawkeye. The Vargrassi Family has no current interest in you, and my pheromones are under excellent control. You can breathe.”

Clint eyed her. Orion women were dangerous. They acted the slave, but in reality were the true leaders of the Orion Syndicate, a criminal network that bound together slavers, spice traders, and mercenaries. Orion women could secrete a powerful pheromone that altered men’s minds and made them effortlessly suggestible. He hadn’t known that power was under conscious control, but it did make sense. Surely it would be impractical to have men falling at your feet _all_ the time.

Coulson, in his ear, didn’t sound convinced. “Don’t trust her,” he warned. “If you turn to your left forty-five degrees, you can make it to the wall and away.”

Clint pressed his lips together, considering. He could do it, but the Orion woman was still staring at him, even though she’d put down her weapon.

“My name is Joan,” she said, still sounding amused. “I think we can be of some use to each other.” She glanced around. “We should not speak here, however. I can meet you outside the complex at a cafe at the intersection of Myylar and Miyyan, two streets away, to the east.” Her green eyes twinkled. “Check with your Starfleet co-conspirators and meet me there in an hour.”

She stepped away, and Clint judged the distance safe enough to take a breath. “Why should I?” he asked. “What use do you mean?”

She met his eyes squarely. “I know that you’re here to steal the jevonite dagger. I can help.” With that, she turned and slipped away.

In his ear, Coulson growled. “She ducked behind the next column and behind that short wall. I — ” He sounded frustrated. “I’ve lost her. I don’t know where she’s gone.”

Clint glanced back towards the complex. He could see movement in some of the windows, but he didn’t think anyone had eyes on him. “Forty-five degrees to my left, you said?”

Coulson exhaled. “Yes. Go.”

Clint went.

“So,” he said into his comm as he scaled the wall and jumped over. “That was unexpected.”

 

*

 

Phil ran every kind of medical scan he could think of, and a few he made up on the spot, to determine if Barton had gotten even a _whiff_ of Orion pheromones.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Barton said, sitting with practiced nonchalance on the tiny galley sofa while Phil fussed, “but I honestly think she was telling the truth.”

“You’re right, I _don’t_ want to hear it,” Phil snapped. He had to admit that every scan had come up clean, though. “How do you feel?” 

“I feel fine,” Barton said patiently. “I don’t feel dizzy, or woozy, or like I have a sudden urge to find out what dirt tastes like.” He raised his hands, palm up. “No impulse to bow or grovel, I swear.”

“Fine,” Phil admitted, finally stepping back. He slid the medical kit back under the replicator. “So, the Vargrassi Family is here. Why? What do they want?”

Barton shook his head. “I don’t know. The Five Families are always in competition, but if Shss’esh works for the Contalioni, that should put him off limits to the Vargrassi. I have no idea why this Joan person would be here, or what she wants.” He looked troubled. “I also have no idea how she knows I’m still working with the Federation.”

Harry, standing beside Phil, pressed her lips together. “It could be a bluff.”

“I hope so,” Barton said with a sigh.

Phil could follow the thought. If the Vargrassi knew, somehow, then that meant either that they’d hacked into Starfleet security or they had someone working on the inside. Neither would be good. 

“Let’s put that aside for the moment,” Phil said. “How did she know about the dagger?”

Harry snorted. “She’s an Orion, isn’t she? Who do you think manages the DealMakers?”

Clint frowned. “Quorn would never let anybody access his systems.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” Harry pointed out.

“He would know,” Clint insisted. 

“Okay, so we have two problems,” Phil said, drawing their attention back to the issue at hand, “both involve this Orion knowing more than she should.”

Clint took a deliberate breath in. “I think I should meet with her.”

Harry crossed her arms. “I don’t think you can trust her.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say anything about _trust._ ”

“I think Harry should meet with her,” Phil interrupted. Both Harry and Barton turned to him in surprise. “She’s a woman, which means the Orion pheromones won't work on her. If this ‘Joan’ person has already surmised that Barton’s working with the Federation, and if she really was at Down Below, then she’s already seen Harry’s face. We aren’t giving her any new information to work with.”

“Unless she really was bluffing,” Barton pointed out, “and Harry showing up will only confirm her suspicions.”

“We have no current plan to get into the building,” Phil pointed out. “The force field is active around the house, and it sounds like the wall will soon be inaccessible. If we’re going to go ahead and work with this Orion woman, I think sending Harry to discuss the details is the least of possible evils.” 

Harry pursed her lips. “I don’t like it,” she said, “but I like it better than sending one of you. I’ll go.”

Barton scowled at Phil. “You just don’t trust me,” he accused.

Phil bit back an angry retort. How _could_ he trust Barton? Why _should_ he? He knew he wanted to, but that couldn’t be enough.

“I don’t trust you to withstand mind-altering Orion pheromones,” Phil said through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t trust myself, which is why Harry’s going.”

Barton sighed and looked away. “I don’t like it.”

“I know you don’t,” Harry said. “Listen – I’ll do what you did, keep my comm open and let you guys track me from orbit. We’ll take all the precautions we can.”

Barton closed his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “The meeting’s in half an hour, let’s get started.”

 

*

 

Harry shifted in her too-small chair, awkwardly holding her teacup. Lissepians drank a syrupy sweet concoction that hid a bitter aftertaste, and Harry couldn’t decide if she liked it or not. 

The chair she absolutely hated. The majority of Lissepians were human-sized, which meant that even on this alien world, Harry was unusually tall. She shifted again and sipped her tea, making a face when she realized that it’d gone cold and was somehow both more bitter and more sweet.

“She should be there any moment,” Clint said, speaking directly in her ear. Coulson had his own comm, and he hummed an affirmative. 

“I hate being stood up,” Harry muttered, “and I _really_ hate Orions.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said an amused voice, somewhere to her right. Harry startled and looked over. An Orion woman was watching her, wearing what might be considered standard cafe clothes if one were gorgeous and stupidly rich. The material was black, but soft somehow, playing with the natural light to create a shimmering visual over her lithe form. It was thick enough to hide her features, but sheer enough to leave the impression of sensual limbs. The colour matched her silky black hair, complimenting her pale green eyes that glittered with intelligence.

And amusement.

“Pray,” she asked, sliding gracefully into the seat across from Harry. “Tell me why?” 

Harry spluttered. “I, er. Are you Joan?”

“I am,” the Orion said with a smile. “And you are?”

“Uh, Harry,” Harry said, pushing back the short black hair that always fell into her eyes. She felt ugly, too tall and uncoordinated, and tried not to dwell on that as she looked around the cafe. She could have sworn there’d been no one within hearing distance a minute ago. “Where did you come from?”

If possible, Joan looked even more amused. “In the past five minutes, or do you want my entire life story?”

Harry glared. “Never mind.” She waved a hand. “What do you want?”

Joan crossed her legs and clasped her hands on the table. “I’m assuming you’re here to speak on behalf of the mercenary known as ‘Hawkeye?’” she asked politely. 

“I am,” Harry confirmed.

“And you’re a Starfleet officer?”

“I — ” Harry started, and then cut herself off. “Does it matter?”

“Information always matters,” Joan said. “For example, I’m intensely curious as to why you hate all Orions. It’s a standard reaction, of course, but it’s the personal details that matter.”

Harry glared. “It isn’t exactly a difficult equation,” she spat. “You take slaves. I don’t care that half of them are Orions who are only there to play stupid, you take plenty of others, too. You keep the slave trade going in the galaxy, when it could have been eliminated a hundred times by now.”

Joan frowned. “I’m afraid I believe you’re wrong – the slave trade will always exist, even if Starfleet might choose to pretend that it doesn’t. The best we can do is regulate it.”

“Regulate it?” Harry sneered. “Like with rules?”

“Yes,” Joan said patiently. 

“So, what, you have _standards?_ ” Harry mocked. 

“No children,” Joan said firmly. Her voice was still calm, but it had acquired a deadly edge. Her pale green eyes glittered. “That is my rule. No children, no parents of children who cannot care for themselves. If anyone within my organization harms children, they die.”

Harry found herself sitting back, surprised by the force of that statement. “You mean that?” she asked, and then shook her head. “You can’t enforce it.”

“Not yet,” Joan admitted. She shifted, and something hard and sharp melted away from her expression, like it had never been there. “We were talking of Hawkeye, though. I assume he’s listening to this conversation?”

Harry crossed her arms. “Talk to me and I’ll talk to him.”

“Very well,” Joan said, spreading her hands. “The force field around the main complex remains activated at all times. I can get you in, or rather, I can get Hawkeye in. Tonight would be the perfect time. Shss’esh is hosting a party – it starts at eighteen hundred hours, and will go until the early light. Security will be tight, but the number of guests will offer us access. I can meet Hawkeye at the back corner and get him through security.”

“Why?” Harry challenged. “Why help us?”

Joan raised an eyebrow. “Like I said, I think we can help each other. My business here is with Shss’esh, but I have been unable to get to him. He arrived only yesterday, and my window of time is limited. My being an Orion will allow us to pass by the outer guards without incident, but I can’t move anywhere freely inside.”

“Why not?”

Joan shrugged. “Orion women are not allowed to travel without escort. In the courtyard, people often assume we are being sent on errand or directed to a different room, but inside the complex, it is different. I had been thinking I could bribe a guard, but using Hawkeye is better.”

In her ear, Clint huffed. “We probably showed up just in time.”

Coulson cleared his throat. “Ask her where the trophy room is, Harry.”

“Do you know the interior layout?” Harry asked, watching Joan carefully. She _seemed_ to be sincere, but then again she was an Orion. She could probably stab someone and keep smiling. 

“Only in theory,” Joan admitted. “The Vargrassi have been here once when they came to make Shss’esh the initial offer. That was several years ago.”

“So it could have changed,” Harry pointed out.

Joan nodded.

Harry exhaled. “Fine. I’ll have to speak to Hawkeye, though.”

Joan inclined her head. “Of course. Tell him to meet me at the southwest corner at nineteen hundred hours, if he wants me to get him inside. Let him know we’ll have to travel together.”

Harry glared. “Do you promise not to gas him with your crazy Orion pheromones?”

Joan’s lips – as elegant as the rest of her – pursed in what seemed to be amusement. “I promise,” she said solemnly.

Harry knew that was the best she was going to get. “Good.”

Joan stood, but then leaned forward, surprising Harry by laying one perfectly formed hand on Harry’s wrist. “I understand that you hate slavers,” she said, her voice low but powerful, “and I recognize that such conviction must come from a personal source. I can only hope that, whoever hurt you, they were not Orion.”

Harry found herself unable to look away from those intense green eyes. “They weren’t,” she found herself saying. “They were human.” She tore her gaze away. “Somehow, that makes it worse.”

Joan squeezed her hand lightly, ignoring the grease Harry could never seem to get off. “Of course, a betrayal by one of our own is always harder to bear.” She released Harry and stood. “Nineteen hundred hours. I’ll be waiting.”

Harry cleared her throat as Joan stepped away. “You won’t be late again?” 

Joan turned to her with a smile. “I’ll do my best.” 

Harry found herself staring after her as she walked away, then shook her head and stood. “So,” she said out loud, speaking into her comm. “That was weird.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, but he sounded subdued. “Don’t worry about it, just come back to the ship.”

Harry dropped a few credits on the table to pay for her tea. “On it.”

 

* 

 

Clint fidgeted by the southwest corner. It wasn’t quite nineteen hundred hours, but it was close. He didn’t know what he would do if Joan were late. 

The complex was _crawling_ with guards, the previously empty courtyard now filled to bursting with guests. Lights and music floated over the wall, distorted only a little by the shimmering force field that protected the property. Clint ducked further into the shadows to avoid a patrol. It made him itch, just standing around waiting, and reminded himself that he had a team now, one that would be helping him.

“How’s it going?” he asked, muttering into his comm. He kept his voice low to avoid being noticed by the guards.

There was the muffled sound of activity, and then Harry replied. “I’m in,” she said, the faint sounds of music an echo to the revelry Clint could hear from behind the wall. “The heating coil you broke is still offline, so they’ve let me in to fix it.”

“Good,” Clint said, eyeing the shadows. Where _was_ Joan?

“Stars and stones,” Harry cursed, sounding irritated. “What did you do to this poor thing, Barton?”

“Hey,” Clint defended. He resisted the urge to snap his bow into his hand, knowing that the weapon was too distinctive, but feeling naked without its comforting grip. “You wanted it broken, didn’t you?”

“It’d probably be easier to replace it entirely, how did you even break the casing like this?”

“I—” Clint started, and then cut himself off. A piece of the wall was opening, a sliver of light spilling into the darkness.

He crept forward, keeping himself hidden, but recognized the figure standing in the doorway. “Joan?”

She nodded, glancing around until her eyes adjusted and she spotted him. “Hawkeye. This way.”

He stepped forward. It was reflexive to hold his breath, but he let it out slowly as he eased himself across the threshold and into the light. If he was going to trust her not to gas him, he might as well start now.

When he breathed, he felt no lurch of dizziness or sudden urge to worship. Instead, Clint smelled something sweet and faintly spicy, either a scent she put on or Joan’s natural smell. “Which way?”

The corridor was short, only a stride or two long, and seemed to extend out from the wall. Clint wouldn’t have known from the layout Coulson had retrieved that there was a hallway here, but it must connect to the main complex on the south side of the building. 

“We’ll go through here,” Joan indicated, “and then up. There’s a staircase that will take us to the second floor.” She was wearing another sheer fabric, this one more intricate, flowing over her left shoulder and strung with tiny jewels. “We’ll have to pass within view of the guests as we ascend. Remain at my left shoulder.” 

“Guard position?” Clint questioned. “A step and a half behind?”

She threw him a quick smile. “You’ve done this before.”

“Never with an Orion,” Clint corrected, “but a man’s got to eat. I’ve done all sorts of jobs.”

“Always a pleasure to work with a professional,” Joan said, and started forward. 

Clint easily kept pace. He kept his hands at his sides but left his bow sheathed. “So tell me,” he asked quietly. “If what you told Harry is true about Orion women not being allowed to travel alone, then why are you here on this mission all by yourself?”

Joan neither looked back at him nor changed her pace. “My regular security guard was reassigned.”

“So, what? The Vargrassi sent you here solo?” Clint eyed her. “It sounds like either they trust you implicitly or they don’t like you very much.”

Joan smiled. “Exactly how much of my conversation with Harry did you overhear?”

Clint thought about lying, but then shrugged and decided against it. “All of it.”

“Then you should recognize that there is a significant difference between the Vargrassi and myself,” Joan said, stopping as they came to the end of the corridor.

Clint reached around her to open the door. “The fact that you have rules? Or the fact that you enforce them?” His own experience with the Vargrassi was that just when you thought they were safe, they turned on you.

“Both,” Joan said quietly, and then was silent as Clint preceded her into the next room. It was much more open than the quiet corridor, nearly adjacent to the courtyard, with large windows letting the noise of the party in.

“This way,” Joan said, turning to her left. Clint followed her to a staircase and then up, using his position as bodyguard to eye the windows that led out onto the yard. 

The previously empty space was full of people. Beings of every description stood talking, laughing or drinking from elegantly shaped cups. Clint spied several humans, many Lissepians, but also several species he didn’t recognize. He wondered if they were from the gamma quadrant, now that the war was firmly over and regular trade had begun.

Chances were, everyone present tonight had at least a passing interest in the Black Market, if not heavy involvement. He’d bet Starfleet Intelligence would give anything to have an audio recording of the courtyard.

“Don’t even think about it,” Joan murmured as they ascended to the second floor. “You’d be caught in a heartbeat.”

Clint scowled. “You have no idea what I was thinking.”

“Your thoughts are obvious, even if I can’t see your face,” Joan retorted, still ahead of him. “You’re thinking of more ways to ingratiate yourself with your hosts. Or perhaps I should say, your benefactors. It seems the legendarily independent Hawkeye has finally been caught.”

“I’m doing a job, just like I would for anyone,” Clint argued. He wasn’t tied to Starfleet, not permanently, anyway. “Sooner or later, they’re going to cut me loose.”

“And you'd prefer later,” Joan stated, as if that were cold fact, and then led them to a door at the top of the staircase. “This way.”

Clint swallowed his rebuttal and opened the door, stepping out and assessing the danger. This was another corridor, but larger and more spacious than the one downstairs. It was lined on the right with open windows that showed the courtyard, and several doorways on the left. A guard stood at each window, all Lissepian, numbering three in total. They each glanced at Joan and then at Clint, and then paid them no more mind. Their focus seemed to be on the courtyard.

Clint wanted to ask Joan if any of the doors led to the trophy room, but couldn’t. Instead, he followed her as she glided gracefully down the corridor. Most of the doors they passed were closed, but several stood open.

One that they passed made Clint pause. The open doorway _clearly_ led to a trophy room, the tapestry-hung walls richly framing several glass cabinets, each displaying rare gems and artifacts. Clint had only a half-second to eye the room, noting sensors, blinking displays, and the faint but persistent flicker of a force field. 

It would be difficult, but he still found himself wondering how he could get in and out. Only Joan’s small, nearly imperceptible shake of the head kept him moving forward, warning him when he would have paused somehow to stare, perhaps by pretending to trip or something.

Instead he stayed within a foot and a half, as prescribed by his guard duties. He followed Joan past the last of the guards and to the end of the corridor, where a closed door awaited them. It seemed locked, but then Joan passed a device held in the palm of her hand over the lock and something _clicked_.

The door slid open, and Clint followed Joan inside.

The room was an office, opulent and clearly empty. A large, thick mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, with a deep, plush wood and leather chair set behind it. Glass panelled bookshelves lined the back wall, with paintings full of colours and shapes that Clint could barely comprehend.

Joan moved forward while Clint took stock of the situation, pulling a datafile from some hidden pocket Clint would have said was impossible with that dress. She crossed the room and sat in the chair, activating a black screen that flared quickly to life as she scanned the datafile in question. 

“You’re clear,” Clint said, already turning back towards the door. “I’m going to leave, see if I can — ”

“No,” Joan interrupted. Her eyes never left the screen. “The dagger isn’t there, it’s here; you’ll do nothing but attract attention.”

“It’s here?” Clint asked, looking over the room again. It was possible there was a safe behind one of the paintings. “Where?”

“Not now,” Joan said. She gestured behind her. “Come stand behind me in guard position.”

“Why?” Clint asked, but he was already moving. She was tapping urgently, activating some kind of file. “What are you — ?”

“Hush,” Joan said. She dropped her fingers away from the screen, darkening it, and then leaned back, suddenly the picture of nonchalance. “They’re coming.”

_Who?_ Clint wanted to ask, but didn’t. Instead he stepped to Joan’s left side, dropping his hands to his sides. 

As if that were a prearranged signal, the door slid open. Clint kept his expression flat as a Lissepian in rich robes was revealed. He was turned away, concentrating on something the person behind him was saying, but his face widened in surprise as he looked up and saw the two intruders waiting behind the desk.

“Excuse me?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone. “What are you doing here?”

He must be Shss’esh. Behind him were three shadows, but the Lissepian’s wide shoulders kept Clint from seeing anything more. 

Clint stayed silent, allowing Joan to speak. She did so without shifting or changing her position. 

“My name is Joan, good trader,” she said, her voice light and pleasant. “I work for the Vargrassi _Famiglia._ ”

“The Vargrassi?” Shss’esh echoed. “What do they want?”

“It is not ‘what,’ good trader,” Joan enunciated carefully, “but ‘whom.’ More specifically, they want you.”

Shss’esh frowned, then paused and looked behind him, where someone was obviously standing. Clint could hear a whispered conversation, but no distinct words, and was just wondering if he could unobtrusively turn up the sensitivity on his hearing aids when Shss’esh nodded and stepped forward into the room.

The three shadows followed. As the door whispered shut, Clint got a look at them for the first time.

They were Orions – two women and one man. The women were small and graceful, but older than Clint would have expected, the first perhaps middle-aged, the second closer to elderly. The man was young and large – clearly a guard – but with a similar facial structure to the women. A son, perhaps? 

“You are far from your _Famiglia,_ ” the middle-aged woman said. Her voice was deep and rich, like honey. Clint had a quick second to remember to hold his breath but, by then, he could already feel some of the heavy lassitude that came with Orion mind control. He blinked, feeling woozy. “Very far, to come and make such demands.”

Joan smiled easily. “Not so very far, Madame Contalioni,” she said, surprising Clint by standing and offering a graceful curtsy. Clint thought she was brave to do so, considering his reaction time if they attacked was markedly slowed right now. Also, were there now two of her? “Thank you for speaking to me.”

The woman frowned. “I will not hide behind others,” she said sternly. “I know you have been raised by the Vargrassi, but some of us still remember the Old Ways.”

“Some of us do indeed, Madame,” Joan said. She smiled, and Clint thought some sort of understanding passed between them. He blinked again. He should probably be doing… something. Calling someone maybe? There was a sound in his ear, but then it fizzled. He frowned and tapped his ear but nothing happened.

“Speak your piece, child,” the woman was saying, “and then leave. This courtesy I will grant you.”

“I am afraid it is not that simple,” Joan said carefully. “You see, my instructions were very specific. I was to discuss the possibility of reestablishing trade with this good man,” she said, indicating Shss’esh, “and negotiate a deal if it were agreed upon. If it was not, then I was to take…” She hesitated. “Further action.”

The Orion woman frowned. “‘Further action?’ What do you mean?”

“I am afraid it is unpleasant to consider,” Joan said regretfully. “Perhaps I should allow the head of the Vargrassi Family to explain herself.” 

Clint found himself leaning forward curiously with the two Orion women as Joan activated the computer screen and pressed a button. This must have been what she’d been doing with the datafile before Shss’esh arrived, because without further fiddling, an audiofile began to play. 

It was clearly of low quality, recorded inside a pocket or another piece of clothing going by the faint rustle of fabric. The words, however, were easy to hear. _“Do not be obtuse, idiot girl,”_ a woman – Madame Vargrassi, Clint realized – said. _“If the Lissepian will not trade, then have him killed. I will not have the Contalioni on my doorstep. Their continued recruitment in the Lissepian system is an insult not to be borne! If he will not switch alliances, kill him, but make it look as though someone else did it. I won’t have the Families accusing me of acting improperly.”_

In the silence that followed the recording, Joan leaned forward and thumbed off the screen.

“I assume that is legitimate?” the middle-aged Orion woman said after a moment. Her voice was flat – _angry._ Something inside Clint’s addled mind recognized that was probably bad. “If I were to investigate it, I would not find it forged?”

“You would not, Madame,” Joan apologized. “It is, unfortunately, very real.”

“How could one of our own have fallen so low?” the woman murmured. “And have gone for so long undetected?”

“Not so much lower,” Joan answered, “than they have been known to sink.”

The Orion looked up sharply. “Is that so? Who are you, to throw away your loyalty to your family so easily? You show us this to gain our favour, but why?”

“I have no loyalty to the Vargrassi Family,” Joan said firmly, “for my name is not simply Joan, but Joan Marcone.”

Clint frowned in confusion as the Orion woman’s eyes widened in understanding. 

“Ah,” she said. “So you do have a reason to hate them after all.”

“I do indeed,” Joan said, her own expression fierce. “I show you this now to have you understand the truth – the Vargrassi are rotten, and rotten to the core. They have poisoned this region of space, the region _my_ family was originally given to rule. I aim to displace them and wipe them utterly from the records of the Syndicate.”

The Orion woman eyed her. “And then you would take back your ancestral claim?”

Joan held her gaze. “Yes.”

“Hmm,” the woman said. “Do you have proof of this name you have claimed?”

Joan pulled her shoulders straight, standing proud with her head erect. “I was named by my mother, in the presence of her mother, at the site of her mother’s grave.”

The woman opened her mouth, but the elderly Orion stopped her. “She is a Marcone,” the older woman declared. “She has that look about her.” Her wrinkled face curved into a knowing smile. “I recognize her great-grandmother’s eyes.”

Joan curtseyed again, bowing low, and her face, when it raised, was wet. “Thank you,” she said. “I have seen pictures, but I had not dared to hope.” 

The middle-aged woman eyed her. “The Vargrassi cannot know who you are,” she said. It was not a question.

Joan shook her head. “They do not, Madame. They do not like me, however. I was sent on this mission with no guard. I believe they wanted me to try and assassinate this good trader, and die.”

The middle-aged woman nodded. “That would fit with their ways.” She looked over at Clint. “What of this one, then?”

Joan turned to him. “This is the famed mercenary Hawkeye. I recruited him myself, and promised him payment either way.” She turned to Shss’esh. “You have something he desires. In good faith, I would like to negotiate for it, on his behalf.”

Shss’esh frowned, checked with the Orion woman, and then turned back to her. “What does he want?”

_They are speaking about me as if I’m not standing right here,_ Clint thought, but found he couldn’t object out loud. His thoughts were still sluggish. 

“He wants a jevonite dagger, given to you in trust by a Cardassian named Gul Madred, but never recovered because the currency fell,” Joan explained. “There is a substantial bounty on the item.”

Shss’esh nodded slowly. “I know the dagger well. It is a fabulous piece, commissioned during the First Hebitian Civilization on Cardassia Prime.”

Joan smiled. “You _do_ know it well.”

Shss’esh glanced at Clint. “I presume you will do nothing so crass as demand that I hand it over in return for my life? I know the reputation of this man, after all.”

Joan put a hand on her chest. “Good trader, please. I am a Marcone.”

The elderly Orion woman chuckled. “You know there is a reason the Vargrassi tried to wipe you out? The Marcone Family was a devious power.”

Joan’s smile grew an edge. “I hope to be the best of the past, and the brightest of the future, honoured Grandmother Contalioni.”

The elderly woman shook her head. “I will purchase this dagger on the young one’s behalf,” she told Shss’esh. “The credits will be worth the pleasure I have had today, to know that my old friend’s family is not yet gone.”

Shss’esh bowed. “Of course, Madame.” He turned to Clint. “The dagger is yours.”

Clint felt some of the fuzz in his mind clearing. He blinked, still heavily, but easier than before. His words felt thick, but he managed them. “Thank you, sir.”

Shss’esh nodded. He walked around the desk and to the left of the two bookcases. He pressed his thumb to a concealed panel, and slid open a drawer. There, nestled in silk, was an ornate dagger. It had a wicked edge and a straight hilt carved of wood, inlaid with a particularly brilliant, glowing orange stone. 

“Here,” he said, and lifted it carefully. He found the sheath – made of the same grain of wood as the hilt – and slid the dagger home, then turned and handed it to Clint. “With my gratitude.”

Clint bowed clumsily and took the dagger. The weapon was lighter than it looked, but felt comfortable in his hand. He was thankful he hadn’t been handed something unfamiliar, like a spear. “My thanks again.”

“Now,” the middle-aged Orion woman said, “it is necessary that we — ”

There was a strange rattling sound from the hallway, and then a loud _thunk_ as something attached itself to the office door. It took Clint a half-second longer than it usually would to recognize what was happening and then he was running forward, throwing himself over Joan as an electrical burst exploded and the door fell in.

Clint was already turning, the rush of adrenalin clearing the last cobwebs from his brain. He shook out his wrist and activated his bow, popping open the thigh holster on his left leg as he grabbed two arrows, standard heads, and fitted them to the string. His arms moved, confident and sure, but his vision was still blurry – he leaned over, peering around the male Orion who had thrown himself over the two older women and had to blink several times.

There was a shadow, roughly human shaped and moving like a man, but wearing dark clothing with a full face mask. He – or maybe she – was moving quickly down the corridor. Clint aimed and shot, but missed – the shadow saw him moving and ducked. 

Clint cursed and did the same. 

“What’s happening?” the middle-aged Orion woman demanded. Her voice was sharp, but steady. Beneath her, the elderly woman crouched. 

“We’re under attack,” Clint said tersely. 

Joan rose to her knees and peered quickly over Clint’s shoulder before ducking back down again. The desk protected them – partially. Clint was very aware of their vulnerabilities. There wasn’t even a window in here, and he wasn’t sure the elderly Orion could escape out of one if there had been. Maybe the male could have carried her. 

“What should we do?” Joan asked. Her tone was brisk and efficient.

“We have to get out of here,” Clint said. “It looks like it’s only one guy, but he’s well armed, and — ” There was a _zzzt_ of blaster fire and they all ducked. Clint turned angrily to the middle-aged Orion. “I could have shot him if you hadn’t messed with my brain!”

She raised an eyebrow. “My apologies,” she said stiffly. 

There was another shot and the male Orion grunted. Clint wasn’t sure if he’d been hit, and then saw that he’d picked up the largest piece of the shattered door and was using it as a kind of shield. 

Clint ducked around him and shot again, but the shadow saw him coming and vanished. He must have ducked into one of the rooms that lined the hallway.

Clint knew he didn’t have a chance of hitting him from this position. He needed to move.

Shss’esh, standing in the corner and only partially concealed, looked furious. “Where are my guards?” 

“Either dead or incapacitated,” Clint said tersely. He’d seen three lumps lying on the floor next to the windows. Beyond the hallway windows, the music and lights flickered merrily on. “I don’t think anyone outside knows anything’s wrong.”

Shss’esh took a comm-link out of his bag and tried it, then cursed. “Comms are down.”

“Yeah, I figured that,” Clint said. He hoped that either Harry or Coulson was riding to their rescue, but they couldn’t stay there and wait. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve got an explosive arrowhead – I’ll fire it and cause a distraction, and then me and your guard here will run ahead and try to take this guy out. While we do that, I want the four of you to run – get to the windows and jump, or make it to the stairway and go. Either way, you go, and we’ll — ”

There was another series of phaser bursts, and then a suspicious pause. Clint had a dawning moment of horror as he realized what was coming. “Get _down!_ ”

It was too late. Their attacker had obviously realized that giving them a chance to get their bearings was a bad idea. He threw a shock-bang grenade into the office. It burst over their heads in an explosion of sound and light, blinding anyone who happened to be looking at it, and knocking out those who were too close. 

Clint managed to turn his eyes away in time, but his hearing aids exploded. Pain lanced sharply through his head and a worrisome _fzzt_ was the last sound he heard. 

He shook his head and looked around. Joan and the two Orion women were sprawled on the ground, apparently dazed, while Shss’esh was still on his feet, but stumbling. The Orion male was unconscious, collapsed on the floor.

_“Okay,”_ Clint tried to say, but couldn’t tell if he’d actually said the word out loud or not. Certainly, no one turned to look at him.

He turned back to the corridor. The figure was walking confidently towards them now, a phaser held firmly in one hand. Clint tried to get to his feet, realizing only then he was on his knees, but he stumbled. Dazed, he stared at the figure.

_Shit,_ he thought. _“I’m going to die._


	4. Chapter Four

Clint fumbled for his thigh holster. He extended two arrows, grabbed them, but couldn’t quite manage to string them on his bow. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again, bracing all the while for the phaser shot that would end him.

There was a suspicious pause. Clint flinched involuntarily. When nothing happened, he looked up, and gasped – the figure that had been stalking towards him was sprawled on the ground, clutching its leg, while behind him, racing up the corridor, was Phil Coulson.

 _“Phil!”_ Clint shouted, or thought he shouted. His ears were still busted. Coulson didn’t pause, but the Orion women beside him, including Joan, struggled to their feet. 

Coulson was almost halfway down the corridor when the man – Clint was almost sure the figure was a man, not a woman, though he couldn’t say why – moved. He rolled suddenly to his left. Coulson aimed the phaser rifle in his direction, but the man swung himself out the open window and down. 

Coulson looked torn, unsure if he should pursue, but then looked up and caught sight of Clint. He reached up to his ear and seemed to be speaking – Clint couldn’t hear anything, but he was sure Harry was on the other side of the comm.

 _“Barton,”_ Coulson said, or seemed to say, reaching the office and sinking to his knees. _“Clint.”_

Clint watched his mouth. It seemed cruel that he couldn’t hear his name from Coulson’s lips, one of the few times that he said it. _“I’m fine,”_ Clint tried to say. He wasn’t sure if he was shouting or not. _“Flash-bang grenade.”_ He waved to the Orion women and Shss’esh. _“We’ve got to get them out of here.”_

 _“Not without you,”_ Coulson said, looking stubborn. He grabbed Clint by one arm and hauled him to his feet. Clint stumbled, but Coulson hung on. He waited until Clint seemed steadier before letting go.

Clint watched him go to each of the Orion women in turn and make sure they were okay. The Orion man was still unconscious, but he looked to be breathing. Clint wasn’t sure how they’d move him. 

Joan was asking something, and Coulson was shaking his head. Clint tried to watch their lips, but then a shock ran through his feet, and the floor rumbled.

 _Oh, no,_ he thought, just as the complex shuddered. _“Phil!”_

Coulson started shouting. Clint still couldn’t hear anything but he could see Coulson’s chest heaving, and then he blinked as Coulson gestured and then pulled Clint into a rough circle along with the Orions. He got what was going on when the familiar tingle of a transporter beam danced along his skin.

 _Harry,_ he thought in relief. _Harry’s getting us out._

Except that a moment later the transporter tingle fizzled and stopped. Clint looked at Coulson in concern – he was frowning and saying something into his comm that looked like _“Try again.”_ The transporter signal re-initialized, tingled twice in short succession, and then stopped. 

Joan was frowning, Shss’esh was saying something, and then the floor rumbled again. Clint saw a flash of light and realized an explosion had gone off. The entire room was crumbling, starting with the hallway outside. Clint watched as the tiled floor gave way and plummeted to the ground below. 

_The man who attacked us must have set a charge,_ Clint realized with a dawning sense of horror. _This entire building is coming down._

The floor was shaking again. Clint turned towards Coulson, wishing desperately that he could hear, and saw Coulson shaking his head. He looked up and caught Clint’s eye, and the moment seemed to pause. Coulson stared at him, his expression naked and honest and _wanting,_ and Clint felt a sudden rush of emotion he couldn’t begin to name.

And then Coulson stepped back, right to the edge of the crumbling doorway, and his lips moved. _“Try again.”_

 _“No!”_ Clint shouted, understanding coming in a flash. Harry couldn’t get the transporter beam to initialize – the underpowered technology aboard _Lola_ must not have been up to the job. Coulson was trying to make it easier by eliminating himself from the equation. Without him, Harry would only have to lock onto six signals instead of seven. 

The thought of leaving, of transporting to safety while Coulson – while _Phil_ – crumbled along with the building filled Clint with horror. He threw himself after him, curling himself around Phil even as the floor dissolved beneath their feet. 

The transporter beam initialized. Clint could feel only the faintest tingle that came from the ionizing atmosphere as Joan, Shss’esh, and the other Orions vanished to safety. Clint knew Harry would need more than a few seconds to reestablish a connection for him and Phil, and they were already falling. He pulled Phil’s head even tighter against his chest, trying only to protect him, and then they hit something, and pain flared against Clint’s spine.

Everything went dark.

 

*

 

“Stupid, irresponsible, pig-headed, _bastard!_ You’d better wake up in one piece or I swear to god, Barton, I’m going to make every remaining second of your life a _living hell._ ”

Clint blinked his eyes. Someone was yelling at him. Someone very special, someone Clint liked a lot. He blinked and tried to turn over, but then stopped because that hurt.

“No! Don’t move! You’ll only do further damage to yourself. The medical facilities were built for Orions, not humans, and I don’t know — Stop that!”

Clint lowered his arms again, glad for some reason that they were responding to him, and wiggled his toes. His lips were dry, but he wet them as best he could. “You’re angry.”

Phil Coulson’s livid face swam into view. Clint looked up and him and smiled. He really did look gorgeous when he yelled.

“Of course I’m angry, you self-sacrificing idiot, you _saved my life._ ”

Clint smiled again. “Yes, I did.” It was coming back to him now – the dagger, Shss’esh, the crumbling floor. He looked up. “Wait, did Harry get us out?”

There was a pad of footsteps, and then the woman herself appeared. Her short dark hair was standing up even more than usual, and she looked pissed. “No, I didn’t,” she grumbled, coming into the room. “You managed to get yourself well and truly buried in the rubble before I could recalibrate the transporter beam and get you two the hell out of there. That’s why you got hurt.”

Coulson looked – somehow – even more pissed. “No, he got hurt because he threw himself after me and knocked us both into the rubble. It’s his own damn fault.”

Clint frowned. “Hey,” he defended, trying once again to sit up and stopping when Phil put a hand on his chest. “Everything was already coming down. I didn’t do anything except protect your delicate neck.”

Phil didn’t look any happier. “Yes, at the expense of your own.”

His hand was still on Clint’s chest, heavy, and solid, and warm. Clint held still and hoped he’d never have to move again. “I’m okay.”

Phil closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. “Now you are,” he sighed. “When we first got back to _Lola,_ though, you weren’t breathing. Scared the hell out of me.”

Clint managed to lift an arm and lay a hand over Phil’s. “I’m sorry.”

Phil bit his lip, but turned his palm inside Clint’s and squeezed. It was heavenly. _Now_ Clint would absolutely never move. “It’s okay, just – please never do that again.”

Clint shrugged minutely, but didn’t answer. That wasn’t a promise he could make. “How’s Joan?” he asked instead. “What about Shss’esh and the others?”

Phil frowned, presumably at his lack of promise, but squeezed his hand again. “They’re fine. They beamed us from the _Lola_ to their ship in orbit when it became obvious that you were... were injured.” He gestured with the hand holding Clint’s, and Clint looked around. He realized for the first time that he seemed to be in some kind of medical bay, but that it wasn’t Federation standard. There were short green-and-black metal tables and tapestries of hanging fabric on the walls. “They said once you woke up, we’d be able to leave.”

Clint looked back to Phil. “Have you called Natasha?”

Harry, standing beside Phil, made a face. “Yeah. She wasn’t too happy with us.”

Phil made a placating gesture with the hand that wasn’t still holding Clint’s. “She’s not happy about the exposure, or about the fact that you were injured,” he explained. “Thankfully, Joan’s told the Contalioni that we were hired because we could keep a low profile, and the Contalioni say they will honor that. No mention is being made of this in the official records, and since you saved Shss’esh’s life, he’s inclined to facilitate that. His complex will be quietly repaired and we were allowed to keep the dagger.” He patted his waist, where Clint could see the jevonite dagger – still in its sheath – had been slipped into Phil’s holster.

Clint sighed in relief. “I’m glad it’s okay.”

Phil made a pained expression. “Four cracked vertebrae, a damaged spinal cord, a minor skull fracture, and six broken ribs, and he’s glad the artifact made it.”

Clint blinked. “Spinal damage?”

Harry patted his shoulder reassuringly. “The Orions fixed it. Their medical technology is top notch, you’ll be fine.”

Clint exhaled. “Good.” He stilled then, realizing something. “And, ugh, my ears?”

Phil paused. “That,” he said slowly, “we will be having a discussion about later, but suffice it to say that the damage was to your hearing aids only, and they have been repaired – or replaced, actually, if I understood the Orions correctly.”

Harry brightened. “Oh yeah, that’s right – hey, Clint, how come you never told us you wear hearing aids? I could have totally revolutionized those for you! They don’t call me the Wizard for nothing, you know.”

Clint snorted in amusement, avoiding Phil’s eye, but squeezing his hand as he turned to Harry. “I know, I’m sorry. I just — ” He darted a glance at Phil and then away again. “It’s always been a big deal, telling anyone.”

He could hear Phil swallow. “You didn’t trust us.”

“No,” Clint denied, though it sounded weak even to his own ears, “I — ”

“Ah,” a familiar voice interrupted. Clint craned his neck up, and Phil let him. He saw Joan crossing the medical bay towards them. She was smiling, and dressed in clothes that he – thankfully – couldn’t see through. “You’re awake, how wonderful.” She stopped by the foot of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Clint admitted honestly. The headache he hadn’t even been aware of was easing, and the pain in his chest was present, but not too bad. He moved his arms and legs again, just to make sure he could, and smiled. “Thank you for patching me up.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me,” Joan denied, shaking her head and stepping back. Coming up behind her was the middle-aged Orion woman from Shss’esh’s. “That was Madame Contalioni.”

Clint got his arms underneath himself and pushed, grimacing with pain, but determined to sit up. Phil made an irritated sound, but helped him, putting a hand under Clint’s back and supporting him as he sat up. “Thank you, Madame,” Clint said sincerely.

She inclined her head. “You are most welcome; after all, you saved our lives.” Her head came up, and she extended one hand. Fumbling, unsure what to do, Clint took it. “The Contalioni Famiglia owes you a debt, Hawkeye. Three, in fact – one for each of our lives.”

“Uh,” Clint said, awkwardly and painfully bending to kiss her hand. “Th-thank you, Madame.”

Joan smiled at him. “The Marcone Famiglia, too, owes you a debt, although,” she glanced at Madame Contalioni, “it may be some time before we are available for you to collect.”

Madame Contalioni looked calm. “Not so long, child.”

Clint looked between the two of them. “Right, well. I won’t say anything to the Vargrassi if you don’t?”

Joan smiled. “That would be appreciated.”

Phil cleared his throat. “As our associate is now awake, I again thank you for your hospitality and care, and request a transport to our ship.”

“Of course,” Madame Contalioni said graciously. She turned once more to Clint. “Thank you again.”

He nodded, and she left. Joan gave each of them a smile, then turned as well.

“Wait,” Harry said, surprising Clint by stepping towards Joan, who looked back. “Did you mean it?” Harry asked, looking conflicted. Her eyebrows were drawn together and her expression looked fierce. “What you said?”

Joan held her gaze, her shoulders straight. “I did.”

Harry nodded. “Okay, then. Well, you’re still scum, but I guess you’re not the worst kind of scum.”

Joan pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile. “And you,” she said, inclining her head, “are magnificent. Thank you.” With that, she left.

Harry turned back to them looking flustered, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Clint chuckled, and then winced when that hurt. “Yes,” he agreed. “Please.”

 

*

 

“While I’m thrilled that you got the dagger, I’m not happy about the fact that an Orion knows we were involved, or that Clint got hurt,” Natasha said. She was doing her best to keep her tone level, but she was sure her words were coming out sharper than she intended them to. It seemed some of her legendary self-control had abandoned her since her promotion.

Commander Coulson sighed. “I’m not happy about either of those things myself, though if it’s any consolation, I sincerely doubt this Joan Marcone will reveal Starfleet’s involvement.”

Natasha, behind the desk in her ready room, leaned back in her chair. “Because if she does, we can betray her to the Vargrassi in turn?”

Coulson nodded. “Exactly.” He hesitated. “Though, to be honest, she also seems to have a particular code of honour. I know that it’s odd among the Syndicate, but I feel as though she would keep her word.”

Natasha considered that. She didn’t have the experience in tracking down criminals that Coulson did, but she did exist in a state of perpetual deception every day. “Okay,” she said finally, leaning forward and clasping her hands together on her desk. “Very good. So, do we have a plan for how to proceed? We do have the dagger, after all.”

Coulson shook his head. “I know Chief Cage had some thoughts on that, but I haven’t spoken to her yet. I’ll do that now.”

Natasha shook her head. “It can wait until tomorrow, Coulson.” He looked exhausted. The team had only gotten back to the _Shield_ a few hours ago, and Natasha doubted very much that he’d slept on the journey back. “Get some rest.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to argue, and then shut it again. He gave her a weary smile instead. “That might be a good idea.”

She chuckled. He turned away and started walking for the door, his steps heavier than normal, when Natasha stopped him. “Oh, and Phil?” He turned around. “You did a good job. Thanks for keeping Clint in line.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t do anything, he did that all by himself.”

She pursed her lips. “Do you think we should trust him?” She did already, of course, implicitly, more than she’d ever trusted anybody, but ‘Captain Romanova’ wouldn’t yet. 

Coulson took a deep breath in, held it, and then let it out. “Yes,” he said on the exhale. “I think we should.”

Natasha nodded slowly. “Okay, then.”

Coulson gave her a sharp nod and left. The ready room door whispered shut behind him.

Natasha leaned back and allowed her smile to show. She still didn’t know what Clint’s game was – they hadn’t talked about how long he’d be remaining on board or what he was hoping to accomplish while he was here – but now she was more convinced than ever that he was going to stay. 

She found it funny that her years-long effort to recruit him hadn’t done the trick, but Phil Coulson giving him one ounce of respect had turned the tables. Natasha shook her head and turned back to her computer, calling up her files on Quorn the Ferengi DealMaker. They were going to have to figure out their next plan of attack, but, for now, she wished both Clint and Coulson luck. If she knew anything about either of them, they were going to need it.

 

*

 

Phil made it back to his room in one piece, even though every step seemed more difficult than the last. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tired – probably his final year at the Academy, or maybe his first all-nighter at Starfleet Intelligence.

No, he realized as he finally made it into his room, only to turn around when the door chime sounded, it was the three days he’d spent chasing Barton through the Nissan Cluster, a densely packed nebula that kept throwing off his sensors, so that he’d had to remain awake for almost the entire time, constantly changing his vector.

And Barton had still gotten away.

Phil waved a hand in front of the panel. The door slid open. Barton stood on the other side, waiting nervously.

Phil coughed out a laugh. _Of course,_ he thought. Of course it was Barton. 

“Uh, hi,” Barton said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “How are you?”

Phil blinked. “Tired,” he admitted honestly. God, he was so exhausted. “What do you need?”

“Nothing. I mean, everything. I mean — ” Barton screwed up his face. “Can I come in?”

Phil peered at him. He was much, much too tired for this conversation. His words to the captain kept rolling around in his brain, along with the way Barton had looked, terrified and pale, as he’d launched himself towards Phil back at Shss’esh’s complex. He knew what Barton looked like when he was afraid, now, and he knew what he looked like when he was dead. Phil wanted to sleep and scrub both those images from his brain. 

“No,” he said finally. He wasn’t prepared to face Barton alone. “What do you want?”

“I, I just — Look,” Barton said, sounding unsettled. “I wanted to say sorry for jumping the wall without telling you, and for getting us in deep with the Orions, and I — ” He took a deep breath. “I know I fucked up a lot on the mission, Phil – I wanted, I wanted you to know that I _want_ to do better. I can – I want – to be a part of this crew, and I don’t ever want you to think, want you to think that I — ”

Phil held up a hand, and Barton fell silent. Phil stared at him. 

He was done. He’d chased and caught and lost and stared at Barton lying still and dead and just _willed_ him to breathe, and he didn’t – he couldn’t – resist this any longer.

“Clint,” Phil said, and saw the way Barton’s – the way _Clint’s_ – eyes widened at the use of his first name, even though Phil’s voice was raspy and his hands were shaking. He raised them anyway, put one on either side of Clint’s face, and pulled him forward. “Shut up.”

And then he kissed him.

 

 

~ End of Episode Three


End file.
